Goule

Blood array, craving mouth mistaken for neon lipstick calm
A beauty stain which marked her hunger
Nine days since she came to me, urged tongue
I was the only one that let her feed, overawed at her visage
Light steps
Bent my neck and gleamed

(from: Awry)

XII (Excerpt from Planar Sequence)

XII. (Seraphim)

Now I stretch myself in the tall grass
And stare at nothing staring back.
My heavy hands are open and dry,
And I could have sworn I heard you coming
With blankets all wrapped around your neck
That draped down to your thighs.
See, there is this dream
That keeps repeating in my head:
As I lay in the meadow
In the swirling moon’s silver light,
You will descend to me
And wrap me up tight,
Because I am cold
And drunken in sadness or madness.
Yes,
You come to me glowing and radiant and free.
But I keep wishing on stars that all turn black.

V and VIII (Excerpts from Planar Sequence)

V. (Seraphim) We made love on some foreign salty sand.
The moon illuminated your naked posture.
I could not distinguish any outline
Of budding wings from my view,
Though I would have slaughtered one thousand perfect dreams
To believe that they were keenly sprouting
Like vines across your shoulder blades,
Glittering and wet.
Maybe they’re buried there still,
Beneath the rigid smoothness of your back.
Perhaps I can help grip them.
I’ll pull your wings free and we will make love again.
The tide touches our feet as the moon howls
For our insatiable desire.

VIII. (Succubi) We made love on some foreign frozen bed,
Locked in a dark dungeon.
Your spine tasted of ashen snow.
The icy convulsions of your body
Were more pleasurable than one thousand perfect dreams.
The rigid smoothness of your forehead
Could not conceal some budding horns,
Two spots of cold radiance
Pushing against your skin more
As you screamed with false ecstasy.
Perhaps I can thrust them down.
I’ll wipe my hand against your face,
Some desolate human touch,
And keep them from sprouting.
Cutting air touches our feet as the chambers laugh
At our insatiable desire.

Wasted Words: 10

Her lips
Electric and oiled

Soft tinge of meaning
Pinching cursing

Biting crushing
Her words were beams

Sadistic energy
Colorless rays

Blind idols
Pulsing steaming

My machine
Gaping hypernova heart