Let my hair rest on your shoulders,
As my skin touches yours,Like fingers fascinated by frosted windows, Etching stories of my desire as a vellum of the gambler’s debts to the men of numbers.
Whispering of all the blue moon’s since the beginning of this Moirai reckoning dipped in each eventide.
Feel the opacity of my hunger for only you in my throaty psalms of names between the desperation of frenzied taste and scented famine.
Empty all the final heedless murmurs just before bodies leave rosettes of love’s liquification on the edges of Aurora’s balmy infancy of beyond any and all of this.
This world is and isn’t ours to hold on to anymore.
Words: M(e.)Twilight Temple Tresses: a6a7
Songs of Seamlessly Stitched Sanity: https://youtu.be/Sn3-1kvv6u4
Present to myself goal in 18 months as I sing the end of the dead breed and learn to be a sinner saint.
Wicked red forty eight special fits baby. Watch the dust, please.
Black velvet hair and first time banshee bangs sound divine in the mean time.
Don’t think I’ll recognize myself either. Good thing,
I’m going to outrun the bounty you think you still have on me.
I believe he holds all his favorite skylines in the recesses of his heart
A safe vibrant, little, large, brilliance given away by his laughter.
So, the clovers rise from beneath the cool earth.
I wait for the roses that grow from his sorrows, his doubts, his overthinking,
his words, his hold, his holy grins….him.
My charred wings,
Always embarrassed me,
As though falling
Wasn’t the choice I’d always pick
It’s the decent,
That thrills me,
As though us falling to endings
Were some sort of tragedy.
And it’s how we were born to be.
So my earthen cherub with
Golden curls of forbidden longing
Skyline eyes of desirous mornings
It’s always been you.
Our days written,
Running amuck with
This yearning heathen,
As though the eons before
Before highway miles
With roaring scramblers careening
Meant as much as
The skyline of mortal intervening
Where our lips met,
Now there is nothing left but
Our temples of stars sublime
Conceleaing only our wild fires
Perched to anhilate everything on the horizon.
Kindling killer baby: Corvinerum
Destiny’s deconstruction sounds:
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
Alternate realities, psychopathic control grid, infinity, euthanasia, pragmatism, business and the esoteric - all in one.
Life Is Beautiful
It's all about you and me
We are talking about something we know nothing about.
embrace the impossible
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
(...and some I have)