Between the layers of my mind, thoughts shift without time. They come and go as they please, never daring to introduce themselves. They come dressed in sheep’s clothing, puckered up like whores kissing the shattered asphalt. Sometimes, they grip me and won’t let go. They seize me and shake my bones. Always ready and willing, to drive a man insane. In slow motion, they change the colour of my eyes to black. They take on the form of objects, organic and mineral. Objects lose their meaning, and become much more than was ever intended. They drip and ooze, like they just don’t know what to do. Black stockings and handprints on hips, of aching flesh and baby teeth. Closing in and ready for intimacy, the bodies in the cemetery, and the scent of her freshly washed hair. Driving in urban hell, silhouetted by dead desire. The kind that aimlessly drifts, like yesterdays need, of wanting to belong. Obliterated in technicolor. The shocking lights blinding, hypnotizing. Lucid like lucifer, and myriad in the ways of desire. Of lust and want. Small mouths and belly buttons. Placing fingers within, and across the planes of her stomach. To push towards an outcome, that has no display.
Mummified, and decomposing. I myself am not composed. Women, and the nature of the universe. The patterns to be found, in their visceral eyes. The clefts of their flesh, tasting of vanilla. Hidden fantasies, trickling like streams in starlight. In fields between trees, where dead children play. Dancing like lovers, and yearning for that special touch. They speak to me, of wondrous things. Cigarette smoke, swirling around her underweight frame. To wear a pretty dress, and to hide a vulgar picture. All nude and ready, for the humming of a lullaby. In shadows and breaking like glass, the howling pain of transformation. Of drinking too much as she blossoms in darkness. All humid and pungent. Covered in bite marks and dust. Bellyaches and pregnancy. Clenched fists and cigarette smoke. The desperation, of pale welsh hearts. Sullen, like suicide and a lack of sunlight. Hunting witches against a backdrop of subways and neon nightmares. Descending into the jaws of limbo. A center of gravity, never to be trusted. Lipless and angelic. Like Jodie the pig, all across the walls and stained into her underwear. Smeared into the bedsheets, and floating in the air like particles of dreams. Vaporised to kingdom come, and oh so pretty like seasons of despair. Those endless days, of rain and nothingness. Framed adolescence, black’d and repelled. Go sing it to the mountain, if it means that much to you.
I can’t recall the essence, of her blood-gums. Nor the colour, of her doe-eyed stare. The animals are dying, in the weeds and flowers that stretch from here to the walls of the crimson tower. The land of blood and sand. Of heartbreak and severed limbs. Mosaic. Floral, and destitute. Cutting virgins, like she never meant to inhale. In a suitcase sinking in mud, all those dreams never to meet the face of god. Through everything she ever knew, the taste of beer was of at least some comfort. Like a lover inside her, so aggressive and physical. Through the cracks in the wall, leading to someplace else. Safe from harm and always moving away. Away from here, like galaxies and shooting stars. In her heart, she never meant to do no wrong. But it’s always too late. She never meant, to be so distant. Nor hide the love, coursing through her veins. But as the machinery fires into life, all you can do is hide your head in your hands and pray for an exit. Maybe you’re crying, or maybe you’re laughing like a joker, teeth sharpened and ready to bite once more.