The mistake others force us to make.
Virtue for the sinner in the saint in the soul of the service.
Her talons are waiting, stretching at time, torturing like Torquemada’s tourniquet.
Fueling themselves with the pain of the untouched, unwanted, discarded in the details of another disaster.
Fire from heaven scorches flesh from the riot, fully protecting the juror’s old peers in the questions of darkness and depravation deprived of detailed reset time.
Give blood for the name that you scream from the floor while she laughs and holds high the bottle of your soul entrapped and entreated and entertained to the evils of good men.
Gimme more horse, whores, who’ers down Market or Bleeker or Couch or Printer’s Alley as the skyscrapers crumble into dust and disaster following fleeting feelings of flings in cities long central to colloquial ideals.
Spike hard. Shoot fast. Never touch the stars for fear of the dead.
Oral bruises near well preserved stab wounds.
Lust cripples the giant now reborn in flames.
Breathe in liquidity, vaporized in dreams.
Emulate. Isolate. Immolate. Innoculate.
Patience is found in a bottle of gin.
Gimme a fucking cigarette.