handful of sunshine
at twilight, the bees drink
and become fireflies
black seta molting
to the glass-bodied bulb
writing in comet trails,
a child's first sparkler
little lightning bolts
shooting stars incarnate
drunk on igneous gold,
they do not notice
as the virgin flower sinks
to be born again tomorrow
a warm-blooded goddess
baptized by the night
Bare my cotton-dyed blanket of a soul.
To you, onlooker, to your perverse desire to listen to the unthinkable.
I won't judge, but you'll surely judge me by the last verse.
I'm planning to make-out with her in a maze of gravestones,
hidden under a morbid curve of some corpse that has long began to fester.
Because as always I am more in love with the poetry of my setting than of the honesty of emotion in it.
I find smoking romantic, even though my mind has been plastered with images of the horrid bloated gums that it will bring.
But all I imagine is a deer-eyed blue-eyed misfit with a stumble and insomniac eyes to blow nicotine gusts on my lips.
Let the carbon dioxide of it's flame make my lips dry and let his ashen ones spark them awake.
I believe my father to be a hypocrite, for he allows me to watch two people mindlessly
fuck but if a man in a drag sings about absolute pleasure, then he shall bring the blunted name "Jesus Chri
This was a decision made by her. I told her that she didn't have to until she was ready; she told me she's ready. For a long time-ever since she was a baby really- she hasn't liked the feeling of water being over her head. Whether we're washing out her hair in the tub or she's in a shower she has not liked water being over her head. Under her head she's fine. She's slowly gotten better over the years and I explained that the baptism meant that she would be under the water for half a second or so and then right back out. She says she's ready. I worry about her that she might get scare