Pulse


Dragging ourselves through the hours of dawn, setting our hearts on fire with delusion, drugs, and waking nightmares. Some poets may call it the entrance to the mythical purgatory of the dead, but to me it feels like paradise. Starving for madness, hunting for an angry fix. The flesh on our bones; electric souls with a magnetic touch. Soft lips breathing stormy words of the heavenly kingdom, finding ecstasy in eradication. The dark angel to a daydream, casted under the captivating trance of enchantment. Glowing moonlight on vulnerable skin, a fatal attraction of animality. The human anatomy and its burning crave for lust; laughter, tears, articulation, pulse, sweat,  lips, hair, the constant movement of the hips, the raising and falling of the chest, eyes, the naked meat of the body and soul. The certain poetry that lies within staying out in the dark hours of night; staggering around in a stupor of forbidden fantasy, whispering prayers of death. Dirty dealing under the cold eclipse, meshed inside of corrupted bliss. Profound emotions caressing my subconscious as I drown in a shallow sea of egotistical self-punishment. Sultry, seduction, sadness, and erotica. A form of decading art and an obsession with dying young and the thirst of always wanting more. The mournful dreams, the living night terrors, and the dark angels of heaven and hell collided. Forever we are trapped in the lost generation of greed, crave, and evil. We, the creatures of the night, invoking repentance for our sins in search of our own intimate nirvana.

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