Pulling the vein
watching the throb
the plip plip thlop
So enthralled with the mechanics.
The ruthless cold efficiency of it all.
Faith in nowhere
reason in nowhy.
Taste of metal.
Drips like a grapefruit.
Fetish in the bound and balled.
Hidden in sepia tones, grainy 8mm and oak closets.
Of hotels and dust bunnies.
Moldy mattresses.
And true l.o.v.e.
Of mystery stained sheets,
of masked watchers
of masterbating ticket holders.
I run it through my hair.
In a brief moment of triumph,
I trace my filthy fingernail under my nostrils,
the heady aroma makes my eyes flicker involuntarily,
like pinned butterfly wings.
To relive
To relish
To revive
Just what exactly have I become?
Whore?
Murderer?
Performer?
Artist?
Just what have I...
Another voice
pulling me gently to the dark of yet another closet.
Will she be waiting for me there?
Are you waiting for me there?
My perfection.
My goddess.
My only.
My masterpiece.
Do you wait patiently, longing for the confines of what I have become?
I've left the path.
And fear I can't come back.
Not this time.
Not without you.
