Dance You Monster to My Soft Song!
If the reaching arm could only sprout feathers Her eyes entombed by the burning nothing Your rosehearted, faceless truth And your mouth, the begged-for hanging sword - She would cast herself in your image If the reaching arm could only hold A lantern to this avenue of sighs Veil inviolate, fluttering above the trench Veil gaseous, in dancer's loving tongue If the reaching arm could only sit patient Waiting for the flesh of memory to rot and decay Waiting for the train to leave the station In a billowing transmuted cloud Waiting for the stars to fall Waiting If the reaching arm could only fray The looming shadow of the sun That heaven rotates Upon her tender hip
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
I ALWAYS WANTED TO BECOME A WHEEL GROUND INTO THE COBBLE RUN THROUGH AND THROUGH BY AXLE AND RUN MY TONGUE OVER THIS CITY'S HEART I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE BOUND BY FORM DESCRIBED IN LUSTFUL RADII AND BEAR YOUR WEIGHT ON MY EAGER NECK AND BEAR YOUR PLENARY SOUL IN THE HOLLOW OF MY THROAT DESIRE FLOWS OUT OF MY MOUTH THE SHADOW OF MY KISS STAINS THE PAVEMENT WITH BLOSSOM I ALWAYS WANTED TO SUBMIT TO FUNCTION I ALWAYS WANTED TO BECOME A WHEEL
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
From lines, from opal-drenched windows From the white door - hesitations, fecund, mitotic Stair - chamber - dream - engine - lust - corridor- exit - throne - return Turn, turn! Draw form From the endless, lambent flaw, whose teeth Scrape death knells into stone, from the empty page
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
Whisper to the dancing graveyard Of words immutable, laid threadbare: The non-self hewn from languor The non-name drawn from light Turn the endless figment, your Hand's waver in lamplit memory, a psalm: The mirror lashed moribund To verdigris and rancor Fill my lungs with amethysts My hollow nouns with gales Of smirking, flickering glass Of meaning condemned to ruin Your mouth on my name Emerald and ruby pared Fawned in fallen permanence Heavensent in fabric flared Desiccate as ermine hеnce Tower birthed by mirrorеd feint Death blows by blows' Recalcitrant cheeks These vacant Pigeonhearted memories But the sun is an empty word And your name is a field of poppies
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
There are blows in life, so formidable... I don't know! Blows as from God's hatred; as if when struck The undertow from everything suffered Were forming wells in your soul…I don't know! They are few, but they are. they open dark gullies In the fiercest face and strongest back Perhaps they are the colts of barbarous Attilas; Or the black heralds sent to us by Death They are profound abysses of the Christs of the soul Of somе exalted faith that Destiny blasphеmes Those bloodsoaked blows are crepitations From bread burning at the oven door And man…. Poor…creature! His eyes turn back, as When someone claps us on the shoulder; His crazed eyes turn back, and that he has lived Forms a well, like a pool of guilt, in his gaze There are blows in life, so formidable... I don't know!
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026