Skeletal blowjobs. Cracks in plastic flesh spreading to the lonesome trees on the corner of 58th Street. Skyscrapers, oozing all the lust and sadistic dreams you could ever think of. Drinking causes flux, it dislodges boredom and makes softened bones feel real again. Painted women. Evil dripping from the corners of their cute little mouths. Lipstick kisses and crushed flowers smeared over wrists so cheap. Brains in jars, singing like unborn babies. Books, demons, and the distant calling of stars. Turn her face to yours, and suck the love right out of her. As you go in and out, tell her how it makes you feel. Whisper it into her ear. Look her in the eye, and let the words do it invisibly as her body writhes beneath yours. A trail of breadcrumbs leading you to the center of her navel. Split personality, basking in the adoration of a thousand lovers. Cherished, horny. Tickled inside. A horizon of labias glowing and humming, all myriad in their madness. Flowering in the sky, seductive and ageless. Bound in books of human flesh and mirrored to infinity, my intent is strong. Collecting nipples and spiders. Selling souls down the river, along with all the useless turds. They’ll try and convince you that they serve a purpose, that somehow, they offer something different, but it’s a crock of shit. They’re wired into the machine, so numb and pointless. Insects, colony. Hybrid. Function. Repeat, duplicate, continue, ad nauseam. Shining so bright and horrendous, with smiles of self-achievement dim like fading light bulbs. Pale like a hookers halo. False as daylight on the grave of a young child.
Rivers, castles, and the scent of a familiar sister. Music, tranquil as birdsong on a sweet summer night. Blades of grass shiver in the breeze. Monoliths and stained glass windows. Flutes, heaven, hell. Girl of transcripts, a history of timeless love; of demons swimming in the minds of lost vigilantes. Portals and gateways to places that wait for us. All those locations, just begging to be tasted. Breathed in, immersed. Pages from a novel where the homeward angel looks back to where it once belonged. Clocks and clouds only touched upon by the sands that shift when the asphalt melts around her feet. Shape-shifting across the desert with a mouth upon her breast. Grains of sand, slipping into the ridges of her sex. Oh, how it all swirls in the mind of someone beyond the layers of comprehension. How it all collapses, like towers of human faith in the swelling afternoon sun. Planes cutting through metal, collapsing like dreams. Floating above the ground, she moves in time to the rhythm coursing through her veins. Eyes fluttering, blood pumping. It drips down the walls, feeding all the pigs. That trail of breadcrumbs, circling the flesh of her sex. The pale beauty of her neck, and the circular notion of her eyebrows. Eclipsed by fire, around the rims of handjobs so true. Glaring, gazing. Down the barrel of a gun, and between the legs of mother nature. Existence, so overwhelming and magnificent. Hyperventilating like crows on acid. These doors of perception, shattered.