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The void is just an inverted dream
In which we are all enguled
Doomed to the empty hours of eternity
To the periphery of
Shudders and mildewed desires
Where idiot savants wander the
Wasteland in search of lost love
Amonst the ruined

And what you call love is nothing
But I do a dual of salivas
Between perfumed corpses
Who seek to accelerate their
Own destruction and display
Their wounds under the beams
Of a luminous chancre

You long for the insincerities
Of the flesh, a mere furnace of
Guts with the gift of tears

I love watching lovers
Profit from their sickness
Exploiting their disequilibrium
With violence and skill in salon
Of blood and guts, that boneyard
Of dreams where the
Extremities of passion
Rapture rupture into an abcess, an absence
The dismal abyss, which follows delirium

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