Honeycomb

Fatal past for the present is where we lay stiffening dry ice mists the eyes of passers by; mourning creates alleys of dead men. Twitches and violent tremors flips an envelope insert for a letter speaking into jasmine incense smoke, a hundred and eighty-one bat tails.

"We are alive and we wish not. We were here and now we are somewhere else. Take us away as you did not know either of us and nobody ever did. We die as bloodless twins."

Indra greets passageways and unravels bandages; he comes and goes as he pleases. Morphing bodies calculate time zones. A nightmare is the demise of beauty; we mirror each other. Bloody chocolate glimpses icicles flashing pink lightning bolts; I am this and this is what I am. Wordlessly vague light streaks from doors, air gaps allow warm artificial heat melting the lock button handles of our crawl space; we lay inside the same bed of frost. Garments is the name of the game; we always need clothes. Swaddled white pajamas for dark to deadly technicians, we edge our way through pitch blue hallways exiting into day; blasphemy of the sun greets us the curse of ultraviolet kisses. We do not desire the touch of sun or lovers of sun rays; we desire the night to whence we came.

We gaze at one other; the same emotion of dying superficiality, our bodies recognize mutability. The flesh is a fallen softness from steady boastfulness. Epidermis slides tight; shed reptile skin without elastic ribs to shift. Milk is the likeness of hollow moon shade; blue lips enclose the mental sphere from a city array of gypsy emotionless colors. Stillness of a rainbow is memory.

"Queen of Darkness.."

"Queen of The Dead.."

Mumbles from teary earth address us as we hurry to find a change of garments; thus interest our interests. We approach twins trenching scrolling crimson upon onyx woven silk, latches to button, sarongs to summon, sandal thongs tossing gravel, chai spirits guide unsuspecting royalty.

"The hive is dying as you come born again; pollinate the comb we live."

"The bees will be a sting of betrayal for those who do not understand these things."

Toes upon heels intermission side to side; twins search for mischief. Chain appendage grips drape from the ceiling, rod iron ghosts haunt the underworld; apathy poisons empathy for faces of men create this underground station of despised contrast. Water lubricates our dry eyes, wounded veins shocks internal convulsing electricity; reminder of the unforgotten exists inside of us. Twin guards of memory disappear; we see a pair of jeweled thrones. We do not sit; we shock inferiority complex.

"You await your kings......"

Molasses dip of sugar cane dreams speaks to us of the royal flush.

"Do we really need them?"

"Suppose it possible to meet them perhaps another century; we are much ado with plenty of time to be patient I assure you...."

"As so do I with the assurance of time."

A neatly pierced looping brow of gold rings with one sweet cherry bead sparkles the tingling damnation of clocks; she knows more than we let out of the box.

"The assurance of time is damnation. Meet your kings...."

Two men of sorrowful skin step out of shadows touching cold hands; we subtract initial reaction, we do not know the difference. Ice is ice nonetheless; intimacy of hidden owls yet night transcends woes' innocence.

"You are virgins; tis the path. You are born of the morbid. No dead is a sealed coffin without release of defeated spirits; the beginning is the end. Welcome to The Abyss and The Damned."

Memory is selective distance chosen by the nomad of traveling pleasures; tents construct linens for mummification angering the Pharaoh's mistress. She will avenge him and entomb his enemies.

Kings of queens speak amongst intellectual treasures. We intersect the open realm of alleys disguised as freedom; here we find the lost kingdom.

"What in bloody hell is a virgin?"

"Bloody hell does not know of any virgins."

"I recall a virgin being one who knows not of intimacy."

"Well we know of intimacy; our bodies have not experienced such."

"These are other than bodies. These are past tense, beyond the present, and absent from the future."

Darkness is a passionate sting; bead doors, acetone gowns, skulls of mistaken pirates, semi precious stones, wrecked boards, flags of distant homes, stolen luggage. Silent sky fades into blackness; all to none. This night we forget steam gutters, lost fragrances, sensitivity from tame advances; this night is the white towel for milk baths.

"Choose your lovers wisely and your haters impulsively....."

Laughs from the man who does not drink yet swallows shots of liquor.

"What do you want your first time to be like..."

"I desire silk with espresso on vanilla rocks; what about you?"

"I wish for tender tuna steak without the chops."

"Maybe we're just hungry...."

"Maybe we hunger other than desire."