Internal art, soft condensed froth of longing of the dreams long-expired.
The girls talk like radios. They talk languages the boys synonymous to heartbreaks.
I sat in a room with a book in one hand darkened with dried blood.
Radio on.
Afflux art sour and mouldy green your soul tangled in writhed fingers of slimy reed underneath lakes; lakes out of the pus you tenderly bloomed out of your blisters.
The girls know what they know. Hands that caressed. Mouths that sings.
Serpents around their slender ankles and laughs that turns your brain black-fleshed rotten mangoes. Raisins under the Sun.
Antennae: pink ribbons in greasy hair.
Ground control to Major Tom.
Venus is a reddish Hell-bound place where everything that ruins —kiss, French kiss the open fire within its core, — forge their tongue into weapons.
I'll go as far as picture-painting you in pastel vomits, to colour coding your tongue of sickly yellow because you are my destruction.
Nothing is ever unpretty in your codex.
The girls imitates the radio sometimes so their sing song mind buzzes inside mine instead and we just goes:
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
Folds inside fold inside fold inside fold inside fold inside fold inside fold inside fold in
all of my gruesome sights until each translation morph back into blue clean poetics, one that cannot induce vomits dissolving clear hydrochloric acids tinted green of bile liquid, forms holes through your hands, mahogany; stained with wine.
You make me warmer, like I could say, you're the amniotic fluid I'm enveloped in. Warmer than fresh puke on bathroom tile.
