Perfume and Flowers


*Originally posted February 2014, within one month of this blog’s birth.


Electrical, chemical. The beauty of fornication. The sensation of a thousand trembling souls washing over your naked skin beneath a blood-red moon. Raised high between two thighs, it goes in, and then it comes out, over and over again. Perfume sprayed on flowering sex organs, spreading through the veins of this drowning city. Holy cavities. Passages. Leviathon. Against a backdrop of bleached skin and malfunctioning circuitry, the freeway bubbles incessantly in my ear. Extinction at the tips of my fingers. Oblivion. Birth. The notion of being rendered numb by all the wasted days of my youth. Little girly girls plucking feathers on a makeshift boat that sails into my hungry belly. And to think of all those cheap insects pushing themselves in without an ounce of grace, of which I was once a part of. Fluent in boredom, they caress narcissism like a pert tit. Excess flesh. Excess ego. Oh, the guilt. Oh, the stretched skin that used to be mine. Don’t lie, be honest. Be lucid. Whores and horses. Fallopian tubes and the M25. The myriad moments of despair lost like those empty bottles of beer floating through sewers and seas on their way back home to yesterday. They call me a boneless daddy. No spine and too much wine. Scars and asphalt. Beautiful gardens and shards of shards. Leaves of luscious hair, like flooded roads and empty barns somewhere in Shropshire. Opening herself up, I peel back her skin and slip on in despite attempting not to as somewhere over the water an ancient monastery crumbles into the ocean. As the crashing waves make sandcastles no longer sandcastles, the obliteration of what she is reminds me of my childhood innocence. That too was obliterated.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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