The persistence of the muse inspires me, my friends and partially counterparts, to write you from some distant hole in a prison cell wall where I eat my last meal. The cold wind runs through my veins as I struggle to stay awake another hour. Level with the lover affairs and the sainted hares that travel you downward to the urges of the crowds.
I can linger only for a moment to watch the guillotine carry you away, a witch burning on a stake too I could imagine. So many lost and forgotten, the blade cuts the skin and I repeat her sad eyes in the mirror. Fortnights from now, the seas higher and luminescent, the trees baying out their mourning songs as we roll and toss through the thickness of the liquid air.
Float on, in embrace with me then for a moment and creep the night away with a touch and song to sway to. Enter through the night inside me and we share the secrets of the dark in unison. We crave then the shaman beats of trance and rhythm inter-wired through your bloodstream, I weave in and out. I can sleep another day. Let tonight be a touch of ember.
Inferno baby, we awake the medieval magic that bellows beneath the surface of the earth and just under your skin. Warm throat pulsing, we dance the trauma out: killings in the street, drop dead ultrasounds. We beat out the floor with our feet: bruising raped women cry out, battered children, overdoses on drugs of the wizard on that yellow brick road. I push key to black key to convince myself that there is a reason to write and to shake and break open. Up and out we go and down into another rabbit hole. Find a way to find the blue in the sky when you wake up in the morning worth all of the bones in the collective closet. I chose the graveyard shift.
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