I.
Molting.
Every night,
I shed my skin,
and lie
at the peeling,
caught in the lye
as the epedermis
reels from unraveling;
dripping my pith
as puddles of forgotten
what-if,
into a cyclone of
reanimated chaos~
orange tub
torso
sends
catatonic echoes-
falling limp,
like a
blastula
nephilim;
I cling to
flimsy
pipe reveries
as they branch into the sigh
of gypsy clouds....
as old grace,
fades as burnt mementos
swirling in a architects
prime intention,
we wear
oily ectoplasmic-chassis\'s
clipped on the suspenders
of the Light Bearers simper;
wondering when
the sorrel mottle
budding \'neath clavicles-
would be
deemed
as Arcadian
pestilence.....
rippling
in the backstage brigade
as a sanctified
fractured dream,
bleeding into
the thump blink
of a inebriated creator.
II.
Ailing Succubus.
Every night,
I prop a pop up chimera
as a hope shiv
stabs doubt
into my mirage
of amor....
with blind
swift
malignant
yen,
I keep holding
my shrine
as a menhir
plebiscite;
insufflating stardust,
till I
feel her
cold
stringy
ebb,
on my
Visuddha.
III.
A Fat Blunt,
)
.
.
.
...
. .
. .
Burns.
Every night,
I weave,
wounded whispers~
into origami loopholes
of justification~
favored as a sterling scapegoat
I deploy pointy fingers
into a looking glass
of prosecution-
shaking,
as a senile cynic
a pompous critic
who critiques
his
inky screams....
ricocheting
off of gravy orisons
in a phlebotomize
basilica;
shattered
thump beats
redirect shards
into the crucified teardrop
of a supernal maestro-
wishing,
I\'d
never stitched
sandpaper roses
into chloroformed roods~
also, trying to
ponder,
if there\'s
one more
spare
blotched wraith
stretched from the gallows....
in the redacted line
between self-love and hate~
there is no room for me
as a gift.....
I only float
as a air-pocket embolism
in your
abyss of dreams;
so......I will save a sequel morsel
for tomorrow\'s requiem.
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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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