To Right Upon Your Wrongs
REMINGTON GRAVES
The blankets believed in me blindly as they coiled tightly about my trembling limbs: warm, velvet vampyres slithering in my slumber, with the protective guise of the hailing blizzard outside, my eyelids flitted under the forcing pulse of a dying flickering candle light, sweat dripped from my brow, neck, and chest, and I moaned your face to life—in the lulling darkness—you oscillated holographically, amid the throbbing walls and whilst you held your breasts—naked and bereft, thy mouth, a cunt, allowed culebras braided and in gyrating rings, helixian siren…bemused and belligerent…bastioned bastard taking the form of a bull, yes, I Bacchus drunk incessantly…devoid of dogma…destroyer of dreams…savior of derailing debutantes and countless courtesans…capricious child echoing in eternity the beauty of betrayal…the endless need to etiolate the agony, the drama from a dotted-lined momma, and a land that neither spawned or welcomes the man…the boy…the apotheosong…
And I awoke so certain of your scent upon my sheets.
Yet we invoked…what little left of us remained.
And I destroyed the septic sigh, betwixt your thighs.
Lo, I stand before your gates with a scepter and a song. To infiltrate your streets, to right upon your wrongs.
∞