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the sight of her beauty
pains me hideously,
it's almost a joke
to hear her heart hurts,
almost forbidden, to see
the scars she inflicts on
her milk-stained skin,
how murderous when
bitter vodka can sometimes
taste artificially sweet
as her pregnant mind
forces her down to the absyss
of cocktail and concoction
where a good death sinks.


i'm sure i hated the
thirteenth hour of her,
how the tickles of madness
always create a joyous mayhem,
deciphering a language of their own
that speaks thunderous gentleness,
everytime the door is locked
from the outside in,
she lays, a puddle of sweat,
a stream of unconventional lies,
underneath lady lunar,
still as the distant air,
absorbing the generous chill,
seducing a wave of heat.


she's your benefactor,
a hotel during dry drizzles,
apocalypse unfolded the sheets,
revealed a little masochist she is,
breathing liquid down her lungs
as she sucks the air bubbles dry,
she was in love with a man,
a purple man from genesis time,
the birth of the forbidden fruit,
eaten raw at its full ripeness,
maybe it is alright sometimes
to admit that you know her well,
shared a piece of conversation,
by the way and by the way,
she still roams the streets today.


lady death