Red is for virgin soil-
dancing crimson pyres ‘neath silhouetted flames
seared behind my lids till 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 Diana’s heel
To the peripheral rhythm of Apollo’s touch
A new Night crowned ‘neath Dusk’s parting lips.
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–
my guts twisted like a sausage noose.
It’s kind of like sun when you really want rain.
Suffering stale cigarette perfume and black coffee toothpaste,
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