crucifiedxxxlust

My eyes feel content in your mouth. Odd thing to feel I know, but sometimes I can't help it. You see, it's all about the tongue… No one actually grasps ideas that hinder impeccable poise, but sometimes under mountains the flow of words makes it impossible to feel the flutter of eyelashes. I for one could never promise. She did all the bidding for me. Who? What do you mean "who"? The woman with the red lipstick looming over your shoulder and mine. She smokes a cigarette when she's bored and sings the oddest songs you'll ever hear. I hate them, but you seem to like them- you're always singing along. Sitting here on the sand lessens

It only used to be a matter of time, The cuckoo died and so did the children. They lay there below it, covered in moss. Moss seems to grow forever, on and on and on... Doesn't it? I have the key- but the key's no good. There's rust. And grease. And all the shabby little things the sandman calls home. We can try to find the red string, but we'll have to search through mountains of crimson and cherry ones. The shade is all that matters. And I don't think we have the time. We don't, do we?

Beware that throwing pebbles may ripple the skies but not shake the monoliths from down here on Earth. They'll make you cry pebbles- tiny white and smooth rocks. You'll ache and as they emerge from you eyes, leaving a gaping hole they won't Trickle down your face, but smash eternity into the ground. I once coughed up a pebble, but mine was stained with blood. It must have scraped an organ, I guess. There wasn't just one pebble. I spit out one and then another, and then another until I was a mountain of little white stones. The forms laughed and threw vinyl screams at me. Those forms, Those faceless, shape

Time is crawling slowly, Attempt to grieve. Like black oil in blood A book of unhindered un-possible hymns. I quiver and melt. Lisps tell children to hush For no longer do laughs mean anything for the Simple. A second of loss lives within me for eternity. I am lost in the garden in the city of rickety toys with no arms, no legs, and worst of all no heads. Their smiles lay on the pavement and as I walk they stick to the soles of my bare Feet. They peel off with only the strongest of ache – succumb to my own cracked lips. -we become one…

It takes but a shiver in the garden- Milk of chilled smiles But nothing remains unlike your whisper Torn. Made. Forever. The woman sits on the table Looking through eyes of glass. No iris. No pupils. Just golden ashes in a cup. Nothing is there and he laughs. How soft his emptiness feels on the skin. The woman moans. Glass cutting her lashes. No tears, no veil, to hide her anguish. The irreverent hate gushes with temptation for the sick yellow lovers. No more. Not ever. Flutters remain unstained.

I was born a blind man. There's nothing mystical about albino eyes woven out of rickety hair; It splits in the stairwell like the binding between you and I lover. I seem to recall a young child screaming for its sanity. Perhaps a girl? Perhaps it was me. No it couldn't be, I was laying in the sun- or was I? The collar bone aches from the weight of your(my)our head. It sways back and forth like Cheap Maude. Do you(I)we remember that swallow? It was dead in the middle of the ghostly road. And you(I)we picked it up in cupped and dirty hands. The head was nothing but a tyre mark. Remember. It made you(me)us sick

The Man swims among faceless forms in the shape of people. He knows the untruth of the world and He aches like a bone broken from the root. Somewhere, in some time the forms had eyes and a mind. The grass seems taller than usual. Does it not? And yet I lost my shoes in the sand before it. Pain of the marrow on tiles lays splattered, not crimson, nor black just incolor. The Technicolor Superstition bakes teeth and fingerprints in what others see as a Black and White Kitchen. The Man sits down and weeps as he eats. She presses her bosom against His back, His Face. And he devours all ideas and Men, in just a si

My time here seems to be scribbled by Owls. She reaches over, Owlish grin. Child, watch out! Mountain of blue eyes on the coffee table, on books, in books, in cups, in pockets and most of all in underwear. Where are you lover? Pounce from behind the door and fall in waters. The woman lies in sand and smokes it. How suave it is. Her hand cupped, is Ash I took the city for granted- now I flood the street from some roof.

Whatever hope there was left, there is none and I squeal like a child, On an ironing board. My faux mother strewn across my shoulders, My faux scratched and bony knees (?I never had bony knees) seen through the eyes of a Dream. I am a false child in the body of an almost woman. No breasts, Wide hips. I could bear a child, yet he could not feed. Dry. Where are you (my) infant?