Stiletto Formal Black Tar Concubine
Tonight I drink to you! On this dead-end flat I
infiltrate the high-rise night. This crystal filled
with cheap champagne is neglected and left to multiply
rations I divided, we were classy just one night, you
left me with no choice but to consume your share and
mine in shame and I, oh, prepare this catatonic scene
where I would wade through this sparkling disease. And
I sing, oh, within this catatonic scene where I am wed
to the concrete. I grip your ponytail to make you feel
like I am passionate. Your lungs are incapacitated
seizing you at will. This serenade declares, “I love you
when you’re horny” we are bathing in a vat of treason,
palpitating to the elegy. Oh, be still this catatonic
scene we’ll barter lust for the compost.
Impale yourself upon this bed of nails you little slut.
Our undulations capsize vessels in a sea of smut and
lace. And when your manicure disfigures carnal sheets
we’re tragedy. Your nape secretes chloroform. No…one more
time. Is this estrogen-acide?
Staccato breaths consume you when we ignite the
betrothed this crematorium will cauterize our shame.
This hypnogogic pretense will serve to lacerate you. We
are the ushers of decadence. This timeline acts as more
than a blinder. We are indentured
servants to madmen.
[And I watch as you undress
tragedy but in retrospect you’ll clothe in
your regret. So disgrace me with her
wine stained lips.]
This polyp’s latched on completely and distorts belief
in Victorian love. This solipsistic existence is
pretense. The moment that we’re born we’re indebted to
contradict our genetics and walk the streets just to
find sustenance.
This is shame at its best. Desperation intact, we
dilute the vine just to quell our loss of enduring
consent and un-marred countenance that we’d wake to find
holds contented eyes. Have we digressed too far to give
ourselves up?