Middle Poem from A Delicately Debauched & Fractured (Lowlife) Disasterpiece

by on August 22, 2020 :: 0 comments

…I garrotted myself, fantastically
with despicable arrogance.
Laughing, dementedly,
at the little, innocent boy
I have ‘Dorian Gray’s Painting’
locked away inside my Soul
…who always gets to pay
the twisted, fucked-up price
of the punishment for my Sins.
That ‘Pulsing’ between Pain
is sticky to the mental-touch,
and extremely addictive…
it sense-smells of yawning,
falling, and broken cockle shells.
It’s almost that time of the month
where I go completely insane…
it’s got fuck-all to do with lunar,
that erratic-thought napalm
has gotta come out at some point.
I was twenty steps behind her,
I froze [Silently] upon the pavement
…and she spun around smiling
“How long have you been there?”
We demand the Truth
until we become an ingredient
in that [Complicated] equation.
We went on a night-time picnic,
we ate amphetamine-bombs,
drank ancient French red wine
and carved blood-flowers
into our post-sex, pale white skin.
“There are no Time-Keepers here”
I whispered, between, distant sighs.
“Only Collectors Of Memories”
she said, confirming, everything.
“I didn’t want to be a Ballerina
back when I was a young girl…
I just wanted to find other folk
who viewed things, sideways,
and felt with their beating-hearts
instead of black-and-white minds.”
I have a ‘Penny Jar’ at my abode
with a label written in calligraphy
‘For All Those Future Experiments
& Experiences Worth Remembering’
and no matter how much money I insert
it’s almost always close to being empty…

editors note:

Too often, what beat we seek turns out sadly, black-and-white. – mh clay

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