Sting

I am many with disease which strikes the ill; only a human can bring such a sickness, only humans know how to kill. Shall I lament for my self? My self being you as well. Vitality is all that which pervades us; when such is gone we cease to exist. You are angry for me, I am angry for you, I am angry for my self, you are angry for your self; we are angry for the dead.

Little one hang upside down for her as she is without rest; little one grip the stalactite of amber as blue becomes her exit. The sign is lit for the pentagram store without a point or even five to bear the backwardness of our world.

Nobody will bury us; we will lay for heretical eyes to pop out of empty heads.

"Herald I do not want to be news anymore."

"Mauve...."

"Your favorite pink...."

"You will be...."

"I miss my Beau."

"You always miss him."

"Why is that?"

"You can't seem to catch him."

"I do chase him...."

"Stop running...."

"How do I get him?"

"When you understand him."

"When will that be?"

"When you are my favorite pink."

"Then will you give up the news?"

"You speak of it as addiction."

"I know of addiction...."

"Your addiction will be him instead."

I must of missed him quite literally again as the hospital ran out of hypodermic needles I am without the pavement for a walk, time is a circle of numbers I cannot stop, the dull black automobile with black wheels carries me to the next runway which I must shoot into my veins else I am not that which does not seem to be whom I am not as presentation.

After which I am sifted into chocolate for an abdomen show to forget who I am. Coming out of the cocoa dip my twin points to my ear.

"Did you notice that?"

Feels as though the milk came out of the middle....

"I'm vanilla on my lobes?"

"With lip imprints..."

"Oooh I wonder what tingled so much. I really enjoyed that bathe..."

He exclaims outside the building out of my vision....

"There is some her she left around your mouth! Come on you know she's got to do this quickly. I will take you to the shop named after a naked lady; there's plenty of brown sugar there."

Banging my skull out the back of a stage full of empty liquor bottles I cannot help but wonder where it went.

"Do you think they actually shake all night long?"

"I certainly hope so...."

"I want to watch."

"Maybe they pop a little as well."

"Like fireworks?"

"Bombs bursting in air...."

It is finished or at least I assure her of this; she is now bearing the cross of missed hairs. As we sit at the desk in front of words forming text we realize the major hint of her senses is cognition of a personality's actions; we each create a trademark of motion whether a door shutting, fragrance of dishes, feet on the floor, pattern of touch, this is undeniable, this is what she admires of everyone, this is how she knows you, this is how she knows me. I am wandering about this peculiarity as I suddenly notice she leaves a signature. Prior to her transience she does escape the heaviness, the feeling of which is that her individual cosmos aligned with her body as energy weighs a ton, this keeps her pinned to wood such as a nail to a set of thick boards. All she can do is reminisce a sherbet Clementine beard soft as Persian threads brushing her chin as affection, hands of tender spider joints caressing her nature, faces of those who enjoy a guilty pleasure embodying her flesh, the music without a dance, chains wrapping around her waist, leather mummifying the Pharaoh's bride of living tombs, then there is you her muse of Olde English, her third sense, the dead politic of freedom, the dreamless of dreams, the hearts of those she misses.