Burning wheels along the highway. Drunken sandstorms and tears in the fabric of space-time. Roses growing in fields of corn. Chalk beneath my feet, and the skulls of dead lovers churning in my belly. Beat, always beating as women devour what remains of my flesh. So hot- always drenched in sweat as they reduce me something sweet. Cutting them in half, the comfort of a cigarette makes me puke in the toilet of some derelict motel. It’s dusty, and vultures circle overhead like I’m something worth tasting. And I am, despite my broken body. My soul glows gold in twilight, and when they lay before me on torn bedsheets, I destroy them with all the romance and hate I can muster. All those burning wheels, speeding past corpses like it was nothing special. Decaying and mummified, like the feelings I’ve neglected so many times down the years. A barn just waiting to be explored. Bales of hay to lay her upon. Fingers itching to pick at her underwear. Those glorious curves. Those breasts just begging to be sucked. I’m no monster. I’m a lover, all red and powerful as the crescent moon slides before the sun. Flies everywhere, heat rising with no escape. She likes my hands over her mouth. Around her neck. She pinches as I peel back my skin. Evaporating, descending. Penetrating. Pushing, pulling. This is how we do things; this is what gets us off. Everything hemorrhages. It splits like flesh. The pinky flesh of her flowered up pussy. Oh, how it drives me mad as the streets dissolve around us. Traffic choking, insects, buzzing. People, hopelessly blind. Summer nights so intoxicating. Rooms as hives. Chambers of desire, of mental lubrication. Roadkill on lonely doorsteps, pitiful and stupid. Sitting on a porch with no one around, the birds wait in mid-air for me to do something, but all I can do is wish to disappear. To find a well, and throw myself into hibernation. No more fire, just sleep. But the scent is too much to deny. The way her body speaks to me in ancient tongues. The way it floats as time ceases to exist. No sense makes sense. Lovers, rotating on pitchforks. Laughing, grinning. Spreading muscles as I do my thing. Like a magician. Beating, biting, longing for her touch.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s