Scrubbing her skin, she’s stood divided before false mirrors. Excited, a lovers touch echoes somewhere in the back of her mind. The way he used to take her, his hands shedding her clothes to the bedroom floor. It was something I did very well. Crucifix cuts across my arms, the act is initiated with maddened anticipation.
Her fingers circle. They tease a monument so darkly, a mythic porno machine so true. Stood there watching, she cries and sighs with no shame at all. Oil pumping through my veins, my eyes are blackened with demon heart. Crawling towards her, I suckle and pump with ease, delirious on the fumes of her remedy. Two bodies, alone and consumed with magic. No prying eyes, no ring of tongues to corrode intimacy. In the arena of flesh and dreams, there are no lies. Nowhere to hide, we show our bones and soon become one. The universe is within us, contained in our beating hearts and hungry bellies. Pushing myself into her, we gaze at each other in silence, mouths touching and chests rising. Everything spins around us, a maelstrom of wonder. Rain splashing through the open window, the landscape outside ceases to exist. A moment so divine, it will surely die with us unknown. Lips upon her eyebrows, hands around her hips. These fragments of hours burn with every cigarette.
And all those cigarettes, burning like victims. On balconies overlooking the city, I lower myself and take a hit. All those women, hanging from trees. The railroads of teenage abuse, curving around urban paranoia as a car crash plays out in reverse. Insects screeching, babies screaming for mothers of no concern. Torn metal and broken glass. Punctured lungs and cracked teeth. As the bodies crawl from the fire, the asphalt melts and soon they’re swimming. Everything swims in pain. The past, present and future. In a portal that leads to future walls of noir, I’m singing ancient scripture. Symbols painted on my hands, the onlookers gather round and bow down. The pretty ones I take away and make love to in secret gardens beyond the city walls. Beautiful flowers and statues surrounding, I lay them down and do my thing. Only it’s not really me. It never is. I am my fathers son, but the sun I am not for him. My mother staggers at me with a screwdriver clenched in her hand as my feet sink in quicksand. Thrusting it forwards into my gut, blood pours out of me like a waterfall as she grins manicly at my demise.
I am not there though. I’m in a car travelling at high speed through the darkness. On a bed surrounded by candles, she’s waiting for me. Nude and abused, drunk and eager for me to have her. Yearning she is, itching for me to come do my thing. The carpet in the room though, it moves when you’re not looking. The shapes shift like snakes. They slither around her, guarding her charms. Through the glare of my headlights, I can see them hissing at me. Wiping sweat from my face, my hands tremble upon the steering wheel. The thought of them having their way with her, of taking her like I once did, it reduces me terribly. Puking out the window, the car goes off the road and slides out of view into a gaping chasm littered with ghosts and relics of lost love.
Lovers, sat in cafes. Twilight fuckers, lost in each other lies. Drinking coffee, the girls dress reminds me of happier days. Sucking on a cigarette, I drink my beer and write bad poetry. My mind is absent, like faith. The guy is absent too. Oh these days of speed and heresy. The piggies that taunt me, and the neon lights that illuminate ugliness in a manner so perfect and hideous. The sleepless seas and freeways, kissing with deadened desire. Modern love, duplicated and prosthetic. A cheap imitation, of all those starless nights we once shared. Somewhere, they still exist. Taking baby steps behind her, I rest my chin on her shoulder and take hold of her breasts with soothing hands. Turning to face me, she makes to speak but what follows is left unclear.