Dead Storage: Mad For Kicks
sitting at the bar she’s facing a double mirror serenade.
she asked, “do you ever wonder what she smells like?
what she tastes like?”
smirking, she gulped the shot,
looked around quickly then resumed staring.
there were faint odors of flesh around her smile,
bringing us together for an eternity of murder.
“lie here in an old black suit and
watch the assassins pass by,” she said again.
they won’t see us. just a saint’s kiss with burning lips.
a tree made of blood, a slither, a trip
through slow burn to reach her face,
to taste the bitter sweat dripping from her skin;
its arms attempt to touch her feet and fail.
we were spiraling backwards,
falling between cracks and sounds.
they were hiding in the fields until the rhythm changes.
as you know, our favorite pastime was
setting automobiles on fire.
The Strange Madness Of The Sin Syndicate
switch round again
switch round again.
it took a dark corner, it had blinded itself
with textbook hugs and moral support.
it saw the creatures enter her.
she poured herself right into. right into the leather bag.
and she squirmed as it grew tight around her
and she screamed for more blood to worship at sunset.
she begged for the frames to scroll and she asked for
forgiveness for the pale white performers on the stage.
the eyes in the booths shielded in darkness
peered in to watch an outcast dance and
to watch her lips on his cock. he was so junk high he couldn’t get it hard,
and her chapped lips sucked at nothing until she collapsed on
top of him exhausted, watching black and blue on arms. tracks with lightning.
she desired to garb her torso in candid clothing,
see-thru pleasures for the masses.
the creatures took possession of us. and they didn’t fit.
no one needs to know. no one needs to know how she
loves to rule in hell and to destroy heaven.