In the beginning was the sinning, and the winning, and the pure holy water on the martyrs folly marks, dark angels too possessed to be lifted, this sifted curse remains like another dark stain from an old way and wave. This habit calling me back to my home leaving behind the stone in reprehensible fashion the dash in and out for a quick stake out on my soul, the skin lilting on mine like unforgotten lover’s babies. The rabies shot darkening with each repose and rest the test of all three dark sides of the moon filled with paintball balloons rather than spoons deep in the lifting of a soul the source of action reframed in time and sought often by forlorn lovers the scent of her, her, her,…smelling like teen spirit in my rivulet of something. Bringing the tension away I wish for a tennis play date but the knot wrapped tighter around my neck while I gamble every cent of winnings on sinning formulas for more, more, more time dancing an an effortlessness of thissness the orgasms of heaven spasming like unborn babies in this we. Spiraling out with a gun, pun, fun gum mixture, I will tear down and restore the door broken and stolen the grace of this concrete place, dungeon, no crab, no light, just jail, tail behind my legs rehabilitation for maturation of the station inebriation, frolicking on a tightrope with no hope for a day after the ways have passed, 90 days in treatment for this bereavement of a babushka. Hope for time and flying fluids past desperate clinging for one more day I find solace in the tombs and tones, deeper like ebony goddessships, deep in this we strive on for striving in the knifing of being and believing, being led to home, a place beyond being and breath.
