Blistering, Erotic, Prophetic


Lovelessness privileges • with its stinging kiss • those of us • immune to the concept • of being wanted • by another • for who we truly are. • •


Chance running off • with luck instead of • leaving up to the gods • the unenviable task • of becoming what we want • pirates desire for • a just cause. • •


Pleasure warring against loneliest night succumbs • only to the touch of no one else • but our own thought, • what filth we share in the basin of our skulls, • rubbing but never getting off • its scalding faucets scoff at • in the overflowing show of technological disadvantage. • •


The kind of shadow we throw • is no heliotrope’s, follows • a son prodigal enough to lose • even his father in a wager with the devil whose • offer to double the trouble • with half the toil spoiled him before • they had a chance to truly know each other. • •


We are our own dusks • reluctant to give up • this ghost swallowing • whole every last • bit of tomorrow, choking on souls • wasted on the altar • of hypothetical daze. • •


Out of its trance trickles • a spate of waves against an angel • of better judgment, • pasting on the notice board of fate • reprobate details of the ways • we annihilate the rehabilitation • of our Selves. • •


Both of us • marked up like Cain • propheting in • his wandering from • knowing too well what • he won't say: that he did it (as we did, • and as we do), has no shame.