The heart can take a lot of sadness. There is beauty in the tar of hell;
in the streets of homelessness of Los Angeles to the concrete heat of
bodies and coldness of New York. I am awake but I am too proud for
love; I would drown for love. While the romance of death circles like a
raven against the high tower of my heart that has flooded a thousand
dreams disintegrate in obscure madness.
We wanted to makeout in the photobooth, and keep these images like a
scarce religion in the pockets of our wallets. Maybe technology chased
that dream away and we were empty kings on neon thrones bathed in
the lights of absent people; The softness of sex and drugs pressing into
the illusions of the skin that moves like violence. That violence which
becomes erotic escape.
My darkness searches for it in the creases of peoples perceptions; It is
vacant, a sour light as alcohol spreading its venomed kiss. A tiny life is
such a big life. The business of people is like the business of bees, each
to its own tempo. Make more honey. Make more money. Don’t look at things
you might not like, find only flowers; But they too bloom in hell and smell of
the sweetest perfume. Some happy melancholy chasing us outside. We have
to go outside. We’re burning up inside.
I take off my body and leave it in the mirror of peoples eyes. How many
flames have made me immortal to rage? How many heavens have fallen
to walk in my hell. Millions come and go; People and cash; a currency of
make believe, almost. I touch you like a wet dream, gently on the wall.
As all the dancing devils tangle my nights. There’s another party, and
another one, and another. My friend said come out, it’s gonna be cool V..
A bunch of photographers, skateboarders, and musicians. I was bored of
the faces they all began to look ugly like me.
I’ve never been bad enough to be bad. I’ve never known myself to be good
enough to be good. In another world, maybe I’d have a body made of golden
light. No one would see me, I’d be so bright. Is that what angels are like?
Now everyone is moving like broken puppets slit into the silhouettes, I get so
soulless trying to talk to the strangers inside of people I know. They see and
touch, but rarely the soul.
Delicately this humming bird sings beneath the wing of my heart but it is too
dark in here. And the drinks pile up like the hours, always the same. The instinct
of my solidarity slithers down like a python between the darkness of peoples
touching. I exorcise my demons with a kiss, it ripples like a scar on a usb disk.
The crowds they keep cumming like some sort of mellow erotic layer of magazine
filth, and it all seems like some tabloid read. If only’s. Love. Hate. War. Religion.
Guns. Whore politics, changing dresses.
Ah but this warmth crawls under the eloquent cool of blood, the iris pool in my pupil.
Where do you end? I begin, such a storm inside your desert. It’s too late to look
away, and there is no water. Drink me. Nightmares of youth collecting and cluttering.
Terrifying silliness with our slipping hands. We wanted to be free of the previous
revolutions. You chased me down the streets. I dared to look away. Yet what is
more youth than the feeling of love?
”Peyote, I come dressed up in a soul as a coyote.
I dance by the flames ice blue, they fly into the
night, lick kisses on alcool. What blood boils, I
scent the heavens that live in hell. Sweet and
innocent I can tell. -V”