Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, August 21, 2011 Under: Poetry
Reinstituting fear begins with...
Necrophilia at your doorstep, whether you like it or not. More decrepit morpheuses creep into your methodology - the slumbering catabombs your children’s psyches dwell in. Fear can be cured, but can it be taught? Instilled. Concealed. Revealed. In a bowl of chicken soup for the witch king’s atelier, who jogs by the black forest and wears baphomet slippers when the marble tiles get cold at night. The sunshine all bright in the morning as Madeleine takes the curtains apart with a scythe just in time to see shooting star droplets creating diaphragms out of mere daylight renditions. Cue Lady Guatemala with a dagger and an army of gentlemen skeleton, shaking hands with piety, thinking masochistic thoughts between courtesy - eyebrows raised, glowing like disobedient moon druids. Applied scholarships, licenses to live revoked by the insurance bureau of the demonic paradise isle overrun by Dubai Airlines thingamabobs somewhere over that horizon with the Singapore smog.
Through a beaconlined street streaked with quiet sirens and jack-o-lanterns towards the small house under the mountain of Monte Cristo. Exclusive rainfall collides with the rooftop, probably black - gothic water color of choice as it moistens Dr. Jekyll’s dockyard.
How ironic, you sign up for the experimental league for degenerate bodysnatching youths and form lesions.
No wonder there’s more horror novels in the sewers than bibles or history books.
Villains always come from mundane families. It’s the natural order of deception’s roots welded down into the seraph bootprints, stomping all over city official consciences.
Nobody seems phased with blood for saliva.
In : Poetry