Red is for the virgin horde,

maple crimsoned pyre locked 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-

What dawn is this?

Virbius lapping at Diana to tease out a self, while Apollo dances 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 spits from her dry whispy veins- empty with the hunger of cunning absentation-

Those who would eviscerate simple truths through sliver lips, 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