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Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation.

A form of arithmetic christening, where mathematics empirically deems me both the sinner and the saint. Where I don't have to bend the laws of dogma to achieve such an antithesis. I want heavenly glory and lustful sin. I want to praise Dionysus in a naiad cove and fall to my knees in a pentecostal church. I want the lord to embrace me and for the devil to fuck me. I want drought to become me, to kiss my sunken cheek and deem me worthy of drainage. I want to be the perfect victim to every divinely endowed force of nature. I want for The Flood to come again, and jump off the Ark of my senseless comfort, to a brave, gallant doom. The doves will mourn me by staining themselves with the blotted red ushering out of their hearts. They will fall by the thousands.

I don’t want to be reborn, for I will live forever.

like god

The promise of betterment, a night owl’s talons drawing blood, The haze of tomorrow, milky eyes of a predator that slept too little The haunting in a house of cards, packing vermilion onto dewy cheeks

Dissolute Sanguine

To perceive is to digest, and to digest is to warp beyond repair; Do not perceive that which you do not wish to be warped. i) Cessation of self prompts the veiling of mirrors, And a vampiric urge to l


It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is


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