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.