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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 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.


Aeons pass

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?


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

I DREAM

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

Carnage

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,

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