the ballad of the dead- us who quarrel with God end up in his collection of white sheet ghosts, a black sun rises over the tar river, as for us- we are passed along the chain like pearls, pierced and sown into a string.
he and i dance lowly on the constant pound of the black hearted, molded and corroded, real love into black lung. the beating of bloodied fists over a bulged bag of waxed pelt, bones to dust, hanging by hooks from the back to the ceiling, the bricks are stones and the floor is blood and fat tissue glimmer.
i run the flat of my hand over his sunken face once every million years, we hook our limbs into knots to avoid the punishment of God, if beauty was ravaged, the dermis pulled into the small abyss of his young deliverance, bloated lips of an inflamed lover, purple as rolling sea over and stretched at thin skin, holding on to each other by nails and into a braid of bodies to be pulled apart by the winds of the helvete- of hades, a rushing of tempest so strong it separates the skin from the flesh. the limbs pull apart and the bone reveals itself into a tease, reveals her ivory leg as the expectator screeches out a cry glee. we exchange a single quiet mutter of love in every meeting, as if revealing secret passions to call the day we were damned, a single year in tartarus equivalent to 10^30 years.
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