What is the core that I suffocate myself to mimic?
If I was a child kicking in the sheets
From a dream,
When I consumed Freud.
Black tar and spring coagulate like
The cane of an old man,
Crafted by some desperate, willing maiden.
Big mouth gaping, I don’t know
What a succubus is.
The core has raised my jaw to
Clench.
Your fangs are alogia but I have a
Moon in my mouth!
A stench.
Shit under leaves are the mounds
Of my love.
And I come in fringes to desicate
The urges that I love to shove.
A call sweetly forbid, in vaults I
Slowly play what I shed.
Dark fantasy music welcomes you in
To the House Without Clocks
Renaissance venusian sex magic
Your sin, baby white serpent, come and take it.
A prostitute spars with the trickster painting trader.
The shining needles of sword catch the sun, fire rains across the garden grounds.
People will drown Lilly’s for our laughter.
But we don’t have any daughters, our hands only touch each other’s foreheads.
With Lilly water we paint secret maps of the canals, where treasure is found.
Spreading egyptian lipstick on our tongues,
The loving or sheepish fever from it.
Full sentences are for business or marriages only!
Words that mean the World,
rattle off the tongue as if yearned.
This is the language of the Gestalts of Love.
To drink wine; laughing, trading, fucking.
We were hired by the garden to be background singers for their daydreams.
Those who drown the Lilly’s are who make our paint,
So we can retrace the maps of roads they didn’t take.
You write a satire for Time when you paint my forehead, others watch as if they had discovered how to move clouds for the first time.
To watch through Lilly water.
The ideas a painting trader and a prostitute can mold. How currencies of secrets and cleverly can create gold.
I dig so far into spring soil, I touched the leaves from the fall.
Grass stains, the doves of blood descend on my flower lamb.
Aurora cries, violently bobbing up from a venusian plumeging.
Mouth agape, virginal gills redeeming, unseen but you and the falls quivering leaves.
Giggling at the rolling visionallys,
mossy land bodies writhing in sexuatical delirium.
You can read on my quill tongue I need Pan,
My heels kick to match your hooves,
But now i’m squirming like tadpole sperm
In early summer, treasure deepening diver.
Your voice krakens from the apocalyptic bouquets of heavens,
Smearing whiteness on my tail onced wound,
‘Swim through and around me, say-soothe.’
I sit in Phantasmagoria, my body turns in my mothers glossolalia.
A ferris wheel I have found myself in,
Wrapped in a feathered serpent,
Its tongue where my insides could’ve been.
Is this Gods love? Who am I now but the God of Love?
Shapeshifting, god morphing, he is keeping from bursting out laughing.
‘My blushing owls’ nest! Our love comes from the heart-on of the human’s chest.’
Hekate, a hectic aussie tititantacalizes me.
Pheromones unleash charon’s ferry moans!
After friction smell my flower dandelion.
Red velvet lines quizzing your mind over bleeding thighs.
Im a target Diana! Miss orgasmic florid phantasma.
Hooves trammel love and war, paws cause clever cleavers
To dig up treasures forever more.
But his hands, inked with twinkling blink eyes,
Black bark and algae spark. Pubic moss peachy purity fuzz,
Veil over our watering white things in glow fog.
I give life from rain, fallen from the birthbath crumbling alone.
Vulnerable secret of my moon bath, schizophrenia.
How we were in the womb, my grieving tome.
It was a spike of jasmine, scent travels in thorns across snow, an essence carried not by loftiness. My feet landed in thorned arrival and she stood witnessed, my pregnant night owl.
Blankets of breathless snow lay for her discomfort but it reddens my gums and tongue.
Idle toys in white trash piles, they sleep on ice dreaming for warmth underground. Glances of Dionysian laughter shudders the solid wind, she knows that she’s not pregnant, she’s dreaming.
Trails of my existence gaslight her as I walk in canoe shoes towards her swelled phantom.
Lighting four fires in cardinal projection, snaring her to provide the birch logs. This is a book burning for toys, infertility has killed irreverence, the cold licked your lips of voice.
What means nothing means something is walking down means I don’t know means who are you means Hello.
Silence speaks, ‘throw all of your toys into the fire, what will awake?’
She hands me logs to feed the fires and her plastic things blossom to black anuses.
Pregnant night owl stands behind me, pretends she is meek, she’s afraid I will eat her.
I do her work for her but I do not share her heart, I am the janitor and she the queen.
Throwing in toys into these fires as if testing bunk fireworks, we wait to see what awakes.
A plastic white horse is thrown up on the flame, but no black anus is bubbling but from it a kick and a revving.
The horse grows the height of I, but it turns from plastic to real life.
It dances in the fire and I stand back watching a toddler convert into a star.
The voice of silence was answered and my pregnant night owl revered. But I tended with greater focus and saw no reins.
In flames the dancing horse jumped out like a mutter from a dream, and we walked up a snow hill out of the gardens steel gate.
All from a dream.
It takes a lot of guts, constantly cleaning the windows just to touch a ray of lucifer. Blood stained high cheekbones. Sapphire eyes and red lips smiling, laughing. Deep red heroin. Prostitutes who fuck so they can describe the tombs.
She is so eager. I can hear the ribs inside her pussy rattle as a snake God cleans her out. Make her a new person before the redling wakes up.
The way bone marrow flaps, it vibrates like a cat’s predatory chatter. A choir begins to scream in the pack. How healing comes for the whore sideways!
Everyone sits back and waits, until they see her strip away at her red layers. Dropping each red garment to the clay floor. Rosacea seared her meat, widowing her whiteness to make glossolalia musique.
There is a kind of light that shoots between birds. Silent crescent lovers who ignore the masses. Soil makes it soft to make passivity manic.
Those who do not know Death, are sent to work the Aerial tolls, where they live off their own illusion as patriarchal trolls.
Passivity is not attractive to the ant who’s afraid to die.
Those birds flock South like tissue from a uterus. Fertile land on fire attacks anyone who defends it. Dancing upon alabaster are shadows of heretics.
Low vibrato tenderizes a pale birth. The healing that is violent of Iain Sinclair, consoles the dent carved on the heads of abandoned children. This is red lipstick and carmine beetles in tandem, a mothers secret.
I view you like marbled shine of fat on a chuck eye cut.
No, I don’t have a fetish for 17th century authors. I want to fuck what was hidden for me to find.
The idea of time kills your erection? Wisdom (Chokmah) feels the same.
A cryptic text written by a soft hand wrapped in tender flesh makes me cum more than you can.
Sometimes it doesn’t, it depends on how long you can fuck the past.
Sometimes they can only fuck the future, eager moans turn into echoes.
They jump into the mouth of whos tongue only cries and consumes.
The tongue helps them die as a Christian martyr, on the precipice between children’s thighs.
To reach wisdom and the meat it contains in butchery, learn how you could fuck a woman or man in shy reach of your century.
A simple practice, what harm could be done?
To self create a sensitive memory, to induce.
To self create a memory without it being inflicted.
To create a fetish thats deeper.
To be one not just with the present.
To be one not with the community.
To be One with the Noone.
To drop eggs not only in the same bed.
But throughout time.
Just like Einstein intended.