Red is for the virgin horde,
maple crimsoned pyre beneath
Disjointed fathoms of the dawn.
A razor-blade grin parts my wrists, bathing us in warm violence on cold humid nights.
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 its being-
Those who would eviscerate simple truths through sliver lips, and forked tongue eyes.
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.
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