My raving writing-dominated lust’s moonlightlessness

By post-war reality meadows the eyes o’mine a sprinklement suffer. Like a river, to the autumnal leaves they smile. Like an ocean, the thorny and shining stars they embrace with a moonlit tenderness. Vibrating on a xeno-scale, the bells people the passer-bies’ ears of the square where the pigeons dance to themselves. Switches suffer the pressure of fingers, which play them as keys of a electric piano made to play swansongs and nothing more - a dirty little secret, grumbles a 24 years old[fashioned] girl. Lights devours everything. Dress I my bestial nakedness with the beauty density of the allegorical shadowness.

Devour me with your eyelids as I fall sick. Let the raindrops go through the dirty glasses of the old window as they were a fan that chases the Summer’s sanity away. Weaves its web the little spider, down its back the time - Zoroastrian and playful- slides its hands like a brush. I find myself in a promethean way in chains by its webs.

The coffee is ready. Could we drink a cup, or it’d be aggressive? 1:03 am means nothing+1 for me. There’s a beam diverted by its in caffeine woodcut Arabian nights’ scent. It’s perverse!

This economy of fluxes has expropriated me each second as the action of a viper poison, says the door creak, as an elderly couple walks through it like a grammatical sentence within another and another and another. One of them smiles. The other one has a healthy body.

There’s no light launched as bomb against that page that pulses between the pen and the table. Sealed with tears, the recipient is the oblivion. This is the way, step inside it. The ceiling fan propeller’s sound guides workers to downfall as perfect lovers. It rains. Can you hear that little violent noise that seems coming from the kitchen every night?, asks a boy to another. A dog barks suddenly, and the fright snorts. The cigarrette smoking interconects fantasy and oxygen. She perambulates. What’s her name? A unrealized desire laughing rips out my backbone. Where did go my movements?I...I...I? What kind of cube is this?

For the asking, a kind of circumspect whisper escapes between the lips like a cat on the rooves deep into the night of what is intelligible [clear nothing is, but dirty]. At the best, a dream could flense her with torrid desires as the body sound asleep. It’s 2:00 am. One more cup of sorrow, raking over dead ashes. A laughing. Shines the blade as a living hope. It echoes.

Would you like a living hope too?

Dedicated to the eyelashes.