This Is It

Red is for the virgin soil

maple crimsoned pyre– silhouetted

between disjointed fathoms of the dawn.

A razor-blade grin parts my wrists, bathing us in warm violence on cold humid nights.

“I shudder and thus prove to be

a furious cancer upon the swarm of shit gorged flies.”

It’s 9:30 and Ybor’s choked with cheap drugs and hard sex when a shrill, tinny voice scratches soliloquies into my electric thoughts-

“Cover your mouth If you’re going to seize!”

Awake to a dream above the stars-

Whose dawn is this?

Where Virbius laps at Diana’s heel

To the rhythm of Apollo dancing peripherally to keep all in awe of his being.

Suddenly a woman appears- sun-gilded and triumphant on her motor-chair

(her father was a raging masticator with hair trigger jaws)

Punctuated blasphemy spills from her dry whispy lips- empty with the hunger of cunning absentation-

Those who would eviscerate simple truths through sliver mouths, and forked tongue eyes.

And then-

It’s kind of like sun when you really want rain, an imperfect infection on our progress report.

Suffering stale cigarette perfume and black coffee toothpaste, my guts twisted like a sausage noose-

Spitting rhetoric from a mouth bloodied with words and choking on sand

“Witches burn brightest against grey winter dawns”

Where a hard-boiled god sits in a vacant parking lot and masturbates to a mirror reflecting a dejected Cinderella stare

This is it.

–––– Jonathan Renfield

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