the void is just an inverted dream in which we're all engulfed
doomed to the empty hours of eternity
to the periphery of shutters and mildewed desires
where idiot savants wander the wasteland
in search of lost love amongst the ruined
and what you call love
is nothing but a duel of salivas between perfumed corpses
who seek to accelerate their own destruction
and display their wounds under the beams of a luminous canker
you long for the insincerities of the flesh
that mere furnace of guts with the gift of tears
i love watching lovers profit from their own sicknesses
exploiting their disequilibrium with violence and skill
in the salon of blood and guts
that boneyard of dreams
with the extremities of passion
and rapture, rupture
into an abscess that absents the dismal abyss
which follows delirium