Red is for the virgin horde, maple crimsoned New England pyre reaching toward
Disjointed fathoms of the dawn, excavated beneath a sea of
Silver hair and forked tongue eyes.
A razor-blade grin parts my wrists, bathing us in its warm amniotic fountain on cold humid nights outside the State Theater.
It’s 9:30 and Ybor’s choked with cheap drugs and hard sex as a shrill, tinny voice parts soliloquies unto my dreaming ear-
and thus prove to be-
a furious cancer upon the swarm of shit gorged flies.”
Awake to a dream above the stars-
What dawn is this?
Virbius lapping at Diana to win his identity while Apollo dances in the peripheral where a man sits 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)
my dope sick longing for her lips empty with the hunger of cunning absentation.
“Cover your mouth If you’re going to seize!”
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