Red is for the virgin harem,
maple crimsoned pyre 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 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