An honest pilot through the mirror's mirror. You leave no stain except the one you wish to make. Electrons follow you around to set you alight at the dead of night. Salivation brings the devout to the endless spittle spout.Painting with blood on the stucco wall a saint appears wearing a bra.
Maybe if I hate enough by Deborah-Valentine, literature
Literature
Maybe if I hate enough
rat-faced man yellow and drawn long yellow fingers, long yellow yawn
reaches for unfamiliar spaces sweaty ideas of greatness
the unsuccessful lover winding down
atrophied ass, skinny bowed legs,
sickly bulging belly, shoulders childlike and narrow
a defeated posture infused with hate cast a weak tea shadow
sabotaging fate: a new idea for each new moment
(we could be famous... we could make a million bucks)
seals them in dirty envelopes to fall through the greasy grate
a gutter by the darkness where nothing really takes shape
plagiarizing ouroboros believing his own lies
at his core a sinister emptiness, so appealing
to the alterna
dusty twilight charged and smoldering fades to indigo
clarinet-throated swans mourn the fall of night
nocturnal beasts come by the hundreds to water
here at silver lake
faraway dogs are brawling -he lights up- plans pour into my ear
moulten visions of erotic dancers
bejeweled desert caves
the wicked, in rythmic rictus
laughing
bleeding from a stab in the thigh
unaware
phosphorescent waves break and blink
burning flotsum mushroom toward the lapping sea
he inhales casually squeezing my shoulder
wading into the future
a carpet of fire-crested egrets
burn snowflake lace into the granite hillside
rippeling claw fingers assist a
along a trellace grows lavendar peas
sweet as poison in the pre-dawn
i sink like a feather through layers of dreams
horses four stories high pounding hooves
arching their necks of piebald grey
snorting as the carnival unfolds:
a brass band weaves through the croud
all is confusion as i escort small dirty children
to their oddly constructed
housed of the future
i cannot enter, i can only peer through the window
drifting down
through layers of silt
to the bottom
of the lake
an amber gold leaf disapears
with my breath
tugging small animals in its wake
stirring motes dodge and lurch
looking up through twilights last haze
nothing to look forward to by Deborah-Valentine, literature
Literature
nothing to look forward to
carton of bleak octopus touches
pails palm against Dr. Trunk
collecting low temperature bodily syrup
to an order of hot-cake monks
aluminum claws fork up
stacks of translucent leaves
set by a grey sprinkle fountain
road-blocks broken from the corner of no exit
blackened wall shoulders the ever eroding tablet
death mounds have been mapped
surveyed delecately
not to blow out the candle
lay awake lighting matches
burning each new symbol falling, falling
coughing sounds snap together an echo
hydrolic compression down, only a trickle
sent to the airfield too late
planned it all out proper shelter
dodging mines and mutatio
for the chosen one by Deborah-Valentine, literature
Literature
for the chosen one
when i was born my own personal carnage began
shocked into a reality i would never liken to
while others suck their putrid cigar air
swim poluted rivers, spawning in a gambling miasma
magnificent horses, their great bulk standing on fingernails
would run mile after single mile
at the end of their short lives
convelesce at the gates of a glue factory
or to be shot
or the lucky ones who were loved for more than a fat purse
would eat sweet grass in some peaceful field
i wish i was born one thousand years ago
to ride through the castle gate
dressed in velvet
scarlet as a setting sun
guarding my chastity
for the chosen one