Her lips don't lie, a repressed smile. I'll take it to my grave. Now all alone. My soul still listening. Talking secrets of everlasting memories. When shadows cover my eyes of Da Vinci's, Mona Lisa. Suppressed smiles, though they don't lie. The shape of her guides me on a chariot of clouds, deep into the underworld. My soul listens ever still. The shadow has now consumed us both.
The darkest of my mind hides the deepest of secrets. With voices in my head telling me what to think. Mama was a good ol' gal until she fell in with a motorcycle gang. As echoes embrace her soft skin and my spittle kiss her pale lips. Sweet as the larvae of her decay. Peeling the carrion from long tall Sally. As grandpa spits in dark's Mason jar. Talking to snails from the archives of my little black book.
As friars sing raptures of the broken-hearted. With intervals of dark rising over twilight's papyrus. Cascading over cataract eyes of notoriety. Falling to pale in my ambiguity, in shadows of death's eternity. But death is only sleeping until the end of time. Feeling the tentacles of my fingers squeeze my shadow from the catheter. Then creeping beyond the door into the abyss of Hell and turning up the wick of the dark.
The Gothic, Mr. Sneeze. Cold in winter haunting souls of bones. And their misdemeanor. Containing ragtime trailing a treble low voice and bass. But it's only in the red Georgia clay. Listening to Charlie Daniels scoot his fiddle. Tasting the seeds of death's spiced infinity. Hearing the wheels of the squeaking Mariah carrying me home.
Embracing the dark side of life. Of the carrion bird's ovaries. Whose name is etched in my back? Hollow be thy tongue, swallowing dead fish. Caught in the catcher's net of one's mortality. Cast by the Cointreau of the Devil's brandy. Oh! but it tastes so sweet. Dressed up neat in my pale shadow of death's philanthropy of a benevolent society. In the twilight's needle. Embracing the dark side of the life of souls without buttons. Shrouded in all my precise threading through a twilight needle of pseudo bloodletting. Free to fully embrace the darkened yarn of forlorn skies, wretched welcoming...
Forgetful memories, if death could be so kind in gray fields of stones as I'm laid to rest deep in the forgotten dark's abyss longing for your kiss shading my obscurity until dawn rises with my cup of chicory and the ghost weaver
As the chill of death came over me and me in my pj's of detox. In my gadabout as a social chameleon. Changing spots, and offering the pox. Honing my quill with a double edge samovar spewing my rot. Of ejaculations for madmen fools from my pen of a gothic persuasion. Dripping from my tongue to your lips in my loathsome hysteria. Feeling the flesh of night disassemble of digestible words for my despicable. As your green eyes look at me from afar in my poetic justification from insomnia's nightjar. I the son of Mayhem and Diphtheria. Using powdered vinegar to cover my rigor mortis as my bones...