blood-n-rhetoric

Pale Perfection Did I create you in my lonely brain bogged down by ideals? It was and will not be sudden wilderness grown like a shell arching into the sky lost precious bereft without my image of you false but perfect.

I am tired ground to the bone restless longing for the invisible hand the unknown hand deceptive truth of he impatience that has collapsed in on itself to reveal a sleepy ache hollowed and unfilled. Pain grinded down on stone sharp, bitter, and defeated.

I want my tiny tastebuds to catch on skin rough and salty slick and warm the learning of lines the finding of forms till my breathe stutters in my throat the pressure of touch needing

When Death comes to me like a fog and I die, Let my soul burst like fireworks and glitter the sky. With lasers and glycerine throbbing in my veins And I crash down through the night in a shower of flames. I don't want to live like a subservient machine. I want to happy till I'm sad, till I'm mean. Just bat your too long electric lashes at me. And, man, let's see what the deep night can be. So when the morning shines on our drug-sore eyes And our lips spill forth with heart-cleansing lies We'll drink water that slides down our cracked throats And in the golden light of dawn our souls will float.