The Conversation

Satanic conversations with compromised Archangels,

Traffickers of unobtainable dream states and non-terrestrial indulgences.

Contraband in need of exorcism.

Carnal gates with eyeless guides tip toe past sleeping guards wielding dull blades companioned by lame wolves.

Friendly angels seeking primal gratification slip past secret keys with their tongues in the mouths of human hosts.

Words die in unnatural postures.

These conversations are an abomination.

There is no negotiation.

You must comply.

Stolen Weapon of Mold

My shield,
In bed with decay,
Conquered and victim.
And armor,
Blasted by shame,
Polished raw
This sword,
Driven through,
And upon.
Infected missions of cannibal gestures,
On fields of wounded longing.
Unclean Impaler,
Found spear,
Foul axis,
Ground to sky,
Then torn to fall.

Day to Night

Spoken to the corner of the room.
Mildewed and the debris of lust.
Solvent, iodine, carbon and dust.
Subject to absolution.
Pull out barbs and red rose thorns and burs and hooks and wooden teeth.
Wash hands and feet.