Whispers, stainless steel and laser-guided,
triple-blessed and sanctified,
(the other one the secret one,
the one they wish they could tell you about
when it kneels beside their bedside
and hides when they look)
always through the proper channels.

She's sulphur-catholic on knee-high impale,
wire-cut in the late-late style.
Fashionably lacerate,
mainlining utility, wet-dock soaking engine skin.
We're learning new names for numbers over drinks and invitations injected,
(hormonophaged in the doom light, like you do)
expectations in cool knee-deep and sulk.

(ricochet morse code for may we have the check please)

All-out, six shades gradually through the iris,
through abyss,
through the teeth,
all the way through
(and will we never find the god-damn)
with turbines set to devour.


Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas