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Lilith, My Stepchild
In the silence of the lotto's addiction. Crossing Lake Ponchartrain as the moon gave me a wink. But it could be insomnia and nightmares. As Lilith is my stepchild from my mind's Picasso, in the abstract. Castrating my scrote, tearing at my flesh. With a crimson stream falling from the archives of Hell's bordello. Touched by the obscenity of her haunting narratives and witnessed by Three-bags Full, puffing his voyeur pipe. In the silence of Lilith sitting in the backseat of my Kia.
Published 11th Feb 2023
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