The meaning of life is life alone. To produce, to sustain, to follow the bell graph while living day to day in a confines of a petri dish.


Hanging Gardens

I walk a curved path, an overgrown path of brainless intent, a path only fit for the blind at heart.
Ruled by underbrush, I stager through strange. The erasure of voices leaves only a crumb of pining and I seek it. A hanging garden stands alone with faux, light eyes and Sheppard's' crooks. Pollinated madness coats the edge of night's gray sleeve as the moon breathes and wanes. I am surrounded by the primal lust of queer animals with tilted hands and jilted hearts.
And shit pours from their mouths like a thousand shrill shrieks doused in sweat. The rancid petals of rotting meat realize carnal pleasure. They dip their heads between her blood and rear in slight retort. For a moment the creatures turn to me, they are sick between her legs. They offer strange gestures, I turn and they return to feed. I carry back my unfit bones and watch as the garden shrinks for her thousand screams.
Her pheromones wane with the moon




Poetry by Seraphina
Read 430 times
Written on 2007-06-16 at 14:09

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