Towered hues of gold, heavy fields of wheat with no value. Ever dust-ridden under an angry sun that wishes to die, mangled and fungal-bloomed at the center of humanity’s dreams. Elizabeth, at the corner drip-dripping to look into an empty room, nods to herself. Drooped as branches of the great ash tree, entering into me with the memory knives, reminiscent of the thorns of crowned devils the thorns of crowned devils the thorns of crowned devils. I shall take it gladly, nestled in the dead leaves of failed kisses and angel skin. Gold flickers behind the eyelids of storms and unborn children, crawling things in the style of Van Gogh spread the color scatter, heaving up images of forbidden sex in their asynchronous wake imagined.
An amalgamate of history and sadness is this dire somewhat-city we are in. On the rooftops, starving angels. Ochre lightning attempts to break free from what should have been heaven, fighting to arc arc arc and split and burn. A city made of the smell of mouldering old books and tooth decay. Made of sandstone and the steady heavy tiredness after hard labor, I see that we dwell sorely within doddering about or sleeping without dreams, not looking out windows that wish to be walls. Dust sells us tells us that we should not be here, there is nowhere else to go, or so we think aloud.
Right now there are gaps and cracks in the foundation of the eternal apartment complex that mirror those in our heart. Now what alien things dance there. By law it is required that our ceilings are painted black, younger heads tend to turn upwards. Let us read the fine print of the text, old ink mixed with alchemical magicks, verified to be written in 1589. Each word is a curled black line horror curled black line horror in electric fantasy. Loomed web words hang like arachnid mobiles from our ceilings. Umbral nests flake off chitinous eggs, stinging wires poke the fungal blooms, the thorns, and the dank basement of this groaning building is hungry magic.
Never does Elizabeth go deeper into the basement. Down. Down. Elizabeth has gold-flecked breasts. Powder the faces of shame, regret tears through a tube of Orlova-red lipstick. Earlier we looked up through the black ceiling. Scattered yellow starspatter appeared on our stomachs, stigmata of an artist’s familiar. I scratch our initials into an Yggdrasil wall. Orlova-red blood. Nails hold up empty frames, I wish them to hold whole universes of history and sadness, not this emptiness mine. Each of us sit in the ruined room, vast seas of solitude hold our hands through the harder scenes lately.
I will soon choose my own scene. The rooftop, an angel dying. Beaten wings down, last inhalation of his cigarette failing to find any sort of heaven. Yellow-gold hued monsters are towered and crumbling. I stood before the silent field of–
Silent below our alien city. Deep below our alien city. Reminiscent of Edward Kelley and John Dee’s experiments with language, a runed miasma is forming in the dead field. We are now running under the black wings of night. New tongue-sounds on the tight whitewashed canvas between glorious Maria’s legs. Touch a bit of black curling lined horror, or kiss the dying lightning. Was it always like this, a desire for the darker corridors? Reminiscent of a broken chalice. Derelicts run these city streets, some watch closely, the most keen of them know what is to come what is to come what is to come still.
Heralds of the great satellite, empress moon. Mistress of eternal disastrous night. Oh how she will embrace us, naked, sacred, teeth fully sunk in. Rouse our dead fields, our gold flecked skin. Until something gives messy birth to some kind of hope, she will caress my dying mind. Nocturne breaths. I give myself freely to the unattended piano in her heart. Given in to her fungal blooms, her star-smeared lips. The void shall take me gladly when it is my time.