like the kiss of summer on winter lips rescuing me from the bitter taste of submission to bathe in the colorful depths of your senses no room for philosophical utterings here
Cerebral theatrics on our earthly stage, We applaud the test to be failed or passed happily, the panoramic shufflings of rapture invoking the terracotta spirit inside this unchaste stage; yet, all the answers remain ironic here
No guilt-ridden sermons at this higher podium the priests are all judges of teasing licks & the incorrigible warmth inside closed tight eyes little swollen flesh within my moist rent riding on cherubic minds in pursuit of angels.
I found my wings on the soft back of an answered prayer traded reason for physical philosophies spoken in the climactic embrace of passionate hysteria all the true heroes suffer the same ecstatic end-- perfect pariahs hung on sultry crosses, closer to the gods than we’ve ever been.
The stoned prophet laughing through my final release: God, no Glory, & your Breath
