Blow out, you cocks, over the ill unchaste.
All fire can quench. You get what you deserved.
Bottled, glints in raw indigo liquor.
Let it spurt now, slap silly with lurid
pulsing spray. Bang-up globs blue as acid.
Irksome forms blurring to booted vapor.
Everything coming apart. Verved. Verved. Verved.
I blur. Apart. I cum. As in lay waste.
As in bits. Nothing is soften’d by love
only those crappy Troubadours and their
shitty ideas on love. Gimme foxglove.
I love poison bottled. One box’d nightmare
orgasm. Proof of what we shouldn’t wish
for, fire quench’d, and all damp flesh must perish.
memories of my ghost sista 