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.
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