Red is for virgin soil-
laden crimson pyres ‘neath silhouetted flames
seared behind my lids where they stain the grace of 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 a 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 dawn above the stars-
Whose dream is this?
Virbius lapping at Diana’s heel
To the peripheral rhythm of Apollo
Suddenly a woman appears- sun-gilded and triumphant on her motor-chair
(her father was a raging masticator with hair trigger jaws)
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.
It’s kind of like sun when you really want rain.
Suffering stale cigarette perfume and black coffee toothpaste,
my guts twisted like a sausage noose-
Spitting rhetoric from a mouth bloodied with words choked on sand
“Witches burn brightest against grey winter dawns”
Where a hard-boiled god sits in a vacant parking lot
masturbating to a mirror reflecting a dejected Cinderella stare
This is it.
–––– Jonathan Renfield