Silver Keys.

Drown in the spicy layers of artificial
Hell. Mountainous Syracuse trees and microscopic flecks of nostalgia set fire to your intestines, twisting until it reaches your
brain. Your head is dynamite. With angel-limbed devils, you sing a
death choir—you are the entire trumpet section. Brass rings, flaming wired glasses, shoved down into your spark plugged
engine. It sputters. Stops. Spots. Lace. Face. Stone embrace.

Destruction of the Christmas lights, deconstruction of human life, resonate in the electrical sockets, travel the air vents, and restrain empty Angel statues. Behold whitened mustaches, dancing toothpicks, and pulsing fireflies Fire drinks. Behold crumbling tires of man, inhaling syringes, smoking antibiotics, delusional to blood-blood-bloody quadruple digits in Hell’s corner.

Let God-like Satans, Satan-like Gods, Devil-like Angels, and Devilled Devils swallow elixirs of radiance, obscurity, and shit-covered romance that expel aromas of the heavens; rust-painted roses droop into rotten teabags stuffed of sex, lies, and sin. Grey pipe-cleaners scrub lungs of ancient pigs, and death lurks around the pot-smoking Santa Claus.

Opaque paint remover whirlpool at her ankles, and your obligations for revenge become saturated melancholic moon in a land forlorn; lost, floating in a chamber of dreams, built with ashy hearts and oblique blood. Behold dead skin cells trip and fall over a jade zither, play a melody of the dregs of the world, painting atrocious memories. Hexagon-colors of poetic grasp drown your sins in rum and vodka and guns and knives and butterflies. Behold flickering potions of gorgeous neglect, venomous regret, and love evaporates into insignificant
giggling
hookers.

[Written in early 2012. Posted on joint blogger account on Thursday, May 31, 2012.]