Hot Asphalt

Yesterday still on her list of clothes to wear. Before she gets old. The matador. The sad songs. With heavy horns. The red cape between her thighs. Doses of anger. Sneaking into the cures.

The brainwash comes in stilted intervals. I'm free because they say I am. I'm happy because that is what we are.

The cardboard of her lips not retaining the words I'd written upon dirty cheeks. The smother of the first touch. The starvation of the last. We died with pride in humble graves. We lived knowing it was purposeless. Heaven not reason enough. Hell no deterrent. Calling our demons by name. Christening them by the faults of our bones. The devil does not frighten me. Since I know he is confined to the prison of my skin.

The pus. Thrones of dead gods. Stuck to filthy crowns. forcing me to change my bandages.

The infection omniscient. All my diseases are gods. All my angels lie about how close I am to heaven.