// prisoners of love //

Take these words for I am deviant, I am full to the throat of the things I desire, the heavy punishing conflicts I turn over and over again in my cavorting mind, can nothing satiate these caustic depths. I chant melodic hymns to navigate the hallways in my blindness, threading these tender ashen fingers against the night wind as she envelops me. Take from me this graceful bow to the aching I feel in constant, a need I wake up starving for and walk through my days alongside, reverently, gratefully, obediently.

You cannot imagine the noise, beloved, the chaos in the violent light of this mad world, this riotous menacing landscape hell bent on denying my psychic chemical longing for a thing unseen. We cut our hearts free and hang them from empty trees, trade our bodies to lose our minds.

I adore the things they despise. I take all corruptions as part of myself and attempt to glean and restructure the patterns they refuse to see: when you expect porcelain skin against your patient tongue, I press myself to your smoldering warmth, broken shards of light, refracted, disconnected. A hunted shadow guides me: breathes with my lungs, walks with my stride, nourishes, sings and seduces through me. She is the dark violet flame, I am her splintered kindling, together we are endless nights burning ceaseless voracious fire.

Faceless moving figures, beautiful angelic figures, spread themselves on lavish lawns before me; a time for worship, a time for healing, the world is at war without and within, captured on film, clipping in dreams, coming undone in playbooks, in theaters, in stained glass windows and we are becoming stoic screens. I undress in ways they never see, eyes closed, soul gliding just above the ground. Take the words, swallow the words that hook us, collect us, recognize us, seep into us like rain penetrates the rich dark earth of our secret fertile places, the textured cream pages within me rupture and bloom as I bleed for them.

There is a spirit there in the midst, shining somewhere between the artist’s blood and our own disturbing self reflection. A benevolent message is being written by ghost hands behind the walls. Something that mirrors us, reminds us of who we are, who we always were, even beyond death, we carry each other. Poetry is not dead as long as it is listening. Words written under the cloak of this human shell, etched into these crumbling toxic bones. This is me. I pray to a god I can no longer taste. Take these words from me as the universe inverts itself, returns life to us, a faithful companion in all of its brutal handsome generosity.

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