my sweetest r.
the pillars of our stories:
1. the pearly gates, inventory:
ivory altar, wooden crucifix, lead cup silver shining, silk linen, sudden bloodshed
the smell of: bleach wings burning oceans methane iron and peroxide
2. relaxation by emitting light, a photograph like memories retracted from a raging inferno.
3. morning sorrow: fold your wings around anything anyone,
freeze in mid air, never take flight again.
4. with the face of an iceberg: to hover over marble floors, the great auditorium soaked in petrol
countdown - minutes before a devastating strike of insanity, a match lit in a gas tank
5. body found in bathtub: smooth, statuesque, the piercing silence guarding hollow cries
your breath dripping with venom (nothing can cure you now).
6. in blind flight, the ugly woman’s long longing hands, like a tornado around her, a
metallic dress drenched in sweat, her scenes played out in between your tender thighs, mademoiselle serendipity,
a throbbing tumour, embarrassing in her extravagance.
7. refraction: the theory of the bending of light rays, the harsh illumination of your polished skin,
golden spheres and silver scales, a black cat’s pilgrimage over the siberian tundra
8. nightfall: deep emerald skies, shaded windshields, clouds slowly sweeping from one hidden haven to another.
this is a fortress built on not trust but hypnosis
i am your loaded gun,
i am your crystal.