Stiletto Formal The Mistress And The Matador
So you wait for a clearing and purchase a room equipped
with your pseudonym and street walking whore. When I find
you, you will wish you were already dead, just wait until
I string you up with razor wire. This is for your wife
and children. This for the decay of volatile chemistry.
This conformation motivates you. Confine your treaties to
a holding cell so you can access this youthful passage.
You are the transient defection of the slain. So cast
shame on this garter without a second thought and send
your six year old daughter to a surrogate hell. When I
find you, you will wish you were dead.
As the moonlight opens secrets this glass ferments to
take us home. As the moonlight opens secrets she will lay
here in this placid form of irony. In this standard waltz
she’s comatose. In this standard waltz she’ll lay in wait
for crowds to trample endlessly, for crowds deceptive
empathy. Is this vengeance of just passion? No it’s
conquest that will condescend our conscious plight. Is
this vengeance, or just passion? Damn your conquest for
its Byzantine deception.
In the night we stake our claim in sequence. And the
pertinent procession follows suit. So we alternate
forensic company. On this wooden floorboard, we dance to
assert our iniquities, and alleviate the thought of “us”.
It’s done
