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 live by candlelight
This dissolute sanguine…
In clots of blood, I taste the structural wire that binds them to a clump
I graze my tongue on the pleasure, that grave disparity,
Realisations of my gravesite,
In which all I pre-empt is mistakes.
I find I may not return to the earth,
For my resting place is sealed shut
My tomb has no divine corroboration.
An exile from death, I plead
For you to taste my essence
I yearn to be experienced, consumed in fragments
Of starlight and earthly dust
Call it Carnal Communion, call it Sacramental Lust.
Kind stranger, known lover; you, so eternally benign
I ask that you drink my blood, not my wine
ii) There are forces that possess me to devour your interior,
(As if with each bite I’ll be closer to a paradigm of our forever)
What makes the dew of sunday morning
Where church inspired a confession
Make it so I look upon you,
Tell you only the digestible
And omit the mention?
What makes the blood, slick, thick, and hot
Brush my lips of lullaby?
What makes the virtue of humanity
Be lost on me, so suddenly?
Oh, juice of sacrifice,
A prayer to the evil in me!
Better yet, a promise that I’ll drain myself
If the forces that possessed me to devour you
Wake again, and take out chunks, indicted
From our love, uncontained, misguided.
My prophet, how do they not know
All I pre-empt is mistakes?