untitled

Draw me, color me in; illustrations of crippled children, our shoulder blades bleeding for the loss of wings, appear on skin as though carved by some imaginary blade, the point as fine as a quill. My eyes are static as I dream of television screens turned on, singing cacophonous symphonies of our doom. The rain washes away at the black holes of our eyes where we have disappeared into the slavery of our maternity, exposed cheekbones and teeth form into a hungry smile. The words pass through your lips in wafts of smoke as you tell me, "Pain is so close to pleasure," and I reply with my forked tongue, "There is no difference." My fingers reach to touch your pale skin, but they slide into your ethereal form, flesh like water until I am inside you.

A nightmare in ink, a tome scribed in black blood, jaded Cancer eyes and a heart like a tumor, something useless to destroy at you until it is excised. I've got a kiss like sugar, I whisper, and semen tastes so much like gunmetal. Writhing against flashes of my acid porno Jesus, the walls taunting in their technicolor flashes, your skin hot like Icarus. My junkyard tomb invites me, my home in scrap metal and maggots hidden away from the Wasteland. I dream that I am you, awake in a fever thinking of mirrors.

I swallow my bullet-pills as I lie on cold porcelain, imagining the flood that will envelope us all. There are airwaves in our blood now, singing songs of Holocaust girls with their bare scalps and black moth dresses and wired infant dolls. I tore out all her feathers and it felt like orgasm to see her so wounded for once. I bought you grave-lilies by river from an old man with a mouth like a subway tunnel and a flickering snake tongue and a laugh like the sound of suffocating children. Out on the concrete paradise, I laid you down and told you, close your eyes; it will all be alright, but I could tell you knew what was coming.

I want to fuck you on a bed of snakes, to kneel beneath you on rusted, twisting nails. We let our hard-wired parts connect and clash, that metallic scraping sound, our twisted livewire sending sparks below us. My succubus tongue is need, driven by the vanity of your super sanity. I pretend I died in a plane crash, the erotic crumpling of metal in a violent act of collision and the moans sound like the roar, the roar of the dying engine as our body split and fragment on impact. I masturbate, hands rubbing the hollow of me until my flesh is salty and raw, to the thoughts of flame, of the beautiful victims screaming under the weight of steel they can never escape. You taste like ashes and fear and the ocean.