The Mistress and the Matador

So you wait for a clearing and purchase a room equipped with your pseudonym and street walking whore. When I find you, you will wish you were already dead, just wait until I string you up with razor wire. This is for your wife and children. This for the decay of volatile chemistry. This conformation motivates you. Confine your treaties to a holding cell so you can access this youthful passage. You are the transient defection of the slain. So cast shame on this garter without a second thought and send your six year old daughter to a surrogate hell. When I find you, you will wish you were dead.

As the moonlight opens secrets this glass ferments to take us home. As the moonlight opens secrets she will lay here in this placid form of irony. In this standard waltz she’s comatose. In this standard waltz she’ll lay in wait for crowds to trample endlessly, for crowds deceptive empathy. Is this vengeance of just passion? No it’s conquest that will condescend our conscious plight. Is this vengeance, or just passion? Damn your conquest for its Byzantine deception.

In the night we stake our claim in sequence. And the pertinent procession follows suit. So we alternate forensic company. On this wooden floorboard, we dance to assert our iniquities, and alleviate the thought of “us”.
It’s done.