I had sticky visions....

There was a particular violence in the air,
tasty in its own migratory patterns,
its religious undertones that drowned me to the sea.
I sweat profanity,
sex in its most basic disguise
was just humidity on a night in September.

I thumped, panted, coughed, struggled,
ended up strangled only by the dust on your shoes.
Pen to paper became its own rite,
just one pathway up the mountain.

God was a goat,
smoking a cuban cigar,
playing strip poker with a transvestite.
Why was it that only my sway on the dance floor
caught the attention of the media and clocks ticking?

I had sticky visions, illuminations of divinity,
blood soaked walls and coffin writings,
time bombs just waiting till the strike of eleven
to implode on the earth’s apathy.
The awakened non-carbon copies of humanity were the only half breeds,
angel and human perhaps,
that would feel a sudden cold chill from
the lips of hell that sucked them under.

I just needed time to wrap my legs around it,
to give in to fits of revolution,
to stare into the moon’s eye
without a shudder,
without a sound.