She's under my skin and navigating in and out of my veins, trousers down, like a melting pill on your tongue, a cactus field of bristles and smooth white-like-honey-lacquered skin, breathing into one another, a highway romance of insanity and calamity, a neon blue peripheral and aerials of a blood-red ecstasy in a carousel of spinning marrow. She doesn't love me and I don't love her, we aren't friends, it's just lips moving and lies that make clothes come off, transform into wild tongue-wagging cats, sexual color and self-righteous bullshit, a ritual and that's it. Battleground of pillows and you're curled like a question mark while you sleep, my skin is cold. Lamplight to sunlight through the blinds.
Dead as I'll be, hot palms pressing on my face, the humbleness and sweetness of a cobra lily growing in the water. My optimistic peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, complex algorithm, scent of a morning bath, anointed afresh, Satan made the Rose, God, the thorns, all hearts have poison in them, all are the same, poets and authors are easily bruised, the crucifix doesn't come off.