The Pinkgirl and the Snowstorm.
SnowstormVitalis.
This sterile blackness composes itself like mystery inside of me while I wish on white pinpricks. I'm through branching out at this point. I'll waste the night air retracting all my statements and endearments, while placing myself in this cosmic coffin for the five hundredth fucking time.
Now I shoot like a comet into the steel cage I know too well. It's lined with starlight and perpetuated by pulsar energy and solar flares. In these instances I recognize my errors in swan-diving into experience; I find myself larger, stronger, more intelligent, and less alive. While I backstroke through meteor showers and nebulous trails of gaseous light, I mourn my independence and scorn my foolish heart for orbiting so surely around terms like 'best friend' and such.
So things aren't as I expected, at this point. My plans and expectations were crimson giants turned now to dwarfish, white balls sitting like rocks in my black hole love. Where I laid my hands against my upper arms and held myself drunkenly, starry nights stain my skin. Tracing constellations on my dermal midnight only holds back the night terror long enough for space madness to set in like a cruel joke.
What the fuck was I really expecting though? This golden ring floats so prettily in these curls, but the sparkle fades with the knowledge that my galactic halo is no more than dust and outer space adhesion.
Powered by gravity and inertia, I sail through these past few weeks again and again, but each time my chest feels a little less like a level binary system and more like supernova consumption when I grimly note the exact moment of this sweetness's deterioration.
Feeling silly enough to abuse the Pink Girl.
--------------------------------------------
She's a rattling skeleton floating aimlessly through Vaudeville. The sway of her hips and the length of her legs are proof she's no more than a sinking ship; a lovely caravel of delicious disaster. In the velvet dark, her eyes are feral and sharp, and your men swoon in cartoon motion.
Eyes on the prize she saunters toward the bar and orders a man's drink, forgoing all flourish and umbrellas. Closing her eyes, she drinks deeply. She opens them to the sound of a man with as much subtlety as P.T. Barnum.
"It's not your fault, this mask you wear. You're just lovelier than the rest."
Without pretense, her wandering hands make known her intentions. In this instant, she's Hecate of the three crossroads; a fabulous lamia, she wears her snakeskin on the inside. He chokes back his gasp of surprise behind a well-manicured moustache.
She giggles darkly, and wonders how much this man might have paid for a girl with half her mystery.
;/;
Outside, the bedsheets are red where her hands are and eggshell where the milky white's gone sour in the southern rain. Her sighs are like piano riffs and his frustrated pleasure sounds like punctuating percussion in the seedy night.
She feels the distinct heat burning behind her eyes. The tingling in her palms spreads outward like cobwebs. In these tacet moments, she feels alive and forgets the sotto jibes of the patient outsiders.
--------------------------------
This sterile blackness composes itself like mystery inside of me while I wish on white pinpricks. I'm through branching out at this point. I'll waste the night air retracting all my statements and endearments, while placing myself in this cosmic coffin for the five hundredth fucking time.
Now I shoot like a comet into the steel cage I know too well. It's lined with starlight and perpetuated by pulsar energy and solar flares. In these instances I recognize my errors in swan-diving into experience; I find myself larger, stronger, more intelligent, and less alive. While I backstroke through meteor showers and nebulous trails of gaseous light, I mourn my independence and scorn my foolish heart for orbiting so surely around terms like 'best friend' and such.
So things aren't as I expected, at this point. My plans and expectations were crimson giants turned now to dwarfish, white balls sitting like rocks in my black hole love. Where I laid my hands against my upper arms and held myself drunkenly, starry nights stain my skin. Tracing constellations on my dermal midnight only holds back the night terror long enough for space madness to set in like a cruel joke.
What the fuck was I really expecting though? This golden ring floats so prettily in these curls, but the sparkle fades with the knowledge that my galactic halo is no more than dust and outer space adhesion.
Powered by gravity and inertia, I sail through these past few weeks again and again, but each time my chest feels a little less like a level binary system and more like supernova consumption when I grimly note the exact moment of this sweetness's deterioration.
Feeling silly enough to abuse the Pink Girl.
--------------------------------------------
She's a rattling skeleton floating aimlessly through Vaudeville. The sway of her hips and the length of her legs are proof she's no more than a sinking ship; a lovely caravel of delicious disaster. In the velvet dark, her eyes are feral and sharp, and your men swoon in cartoon motion.
Eyes on the prize she saunters toward the bar and orders a man's drink, forgoing all flourish and umbrellas. Closing her eyes, she drinks deeply. She opens them to the sound of a man with as much subtlety as P.T. Barnum.
"It's not your fault, this mask you wear. You're just lovelier than the rest."
Without pretense, her wandering hands make known her intentions. In this instant, she's Hecate of the three crossroads; a fabulous lamia, she wears her snakeskin on the inside. He chokes back his gasp of surprise behind a well-manicured moustache.
She giggles darkly, and wonders how much this man might have paid for a girl with half her mystery.
;/;
Outside, the bedsheets are red where her hands are and eggshell where the milky white's gone sour in the southern rain. Her sighs are like piano riffs and his frustrated pleasure sounds like punctuating percussion in the seedy night.
She feels the distinct heat burning behind her eyes. The tingling in her palms spreads outward like cobwebs. In these tacet moments, she feels alive and forgets the sotto jibes of the patient outsiders.
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