Balthazaa's Hour Glass ShotgunMature

 

I write to fail to die to hope to envisage these images, to entice the throbbing lust that I desire, goodnight Apollo, screams Balthazar, their last leaves bound in ivory, just like that sleeping dog, weak and old, screaming in failed retinas. Angelic these deafening wounds, photography plays out fate backwards, and home is where my heart is.

I admit I fear age.

Saturn has me by the fucking balls.

- All this doubt is encompassed in compasses in deep down passes, and we ARE all afraid, because when hope comes down there is nothing left but misery, and mystery encompassed the compasses in the deep down passes, and we ARE all afraid, because when we die there wont be a second chance to not believe. Saturn takes my skull and thrusts steel prongs through my eye sockets.

- The silence drives night into our hearts. Once I knew this girl, she was dying, oh she was dying, and realization dies with me tonight. Once I knew this girl, she was dying. Had leukemia if I recall correctly. I hide deep in here. She suffered. She suffered, Oh god she suffered, Apollo burn me down.

- She suffered?

- Oh god she suffered.

- These dying moments are the moments in which we should reflect for our time is all but immortal. We are running out of time, we are running out of time.

- Switch.

- A mirage sinks into my skin, a bleeding sun rests cradled in a crescent of clouds that sits perched on the ominous mountains, rising up hard against the cool steel city like a glitch in the dunes.

- I will reveal that forever is my favorite day.

- Can I spend that day with you?

- I choose my hour glass shot gun to cast down death dates, we are the harmless, you are distance, distance incarnate, the breeze block sun spots bleed helplessly like a bride from black eyes.

- Holding each fragment.

- We.

- Come. Along. We… Mystic, Must. Tend, …to… the darkest… nights.

- Velour eyes, stitched and blank… black.

- Oh how I miss you, though you always did despise me, you must have hated to love me. After all. All I am is human. Do you remember that time when we held hands and skipped into the sea on the sharp stones, broke our bones, but swam with our bleeding feet, salt writhing at our wounds, we would kiss and hold one another, we danced the sea like a sunken ship, bleeding the shore sands that were beneath us with our passionate love making. Oh how I miss you, though you must have despised me. We would rape each others honesty, we knew we were lying to each other, I knew you were fucking him; you knew I was kissing her. How Saturn changes tide.

- Time is dead to me.

I write as though razors have carved my tendons to do so.

This temporary sky sung, and we all bled to this noose we discovered for my suicide, Balthazar says my time is up, but I keep on changing masks, my track is distant and soon to be dormant. This temporary sky sung

“I love you”
- She doesn’t love me.

- I love you

- But she doesn’t love me.

- but I love you

- She doesn’t love me

- I do.

- She swayed gently like a demon, the second hand swung round pendulous, twist, dive, die.

- These words are indirect, I am hope, I am time, can you substantiate your rhythm?

- She doesn’t love me

- FOR FUCK’S SAKE SILVER.

- What is it you want? I cannot love you, for I love another, my eyes are transfixed and my heart is channeled, to the passageway of dawn, opening and releasing fissures across stone surfaces of chambers.

- You are heartless.

- So why do you love me?

Strings of silver guide and guild each tendon stroke muscle that tunes into gold like a mute guitar, stretching, retching, then puking, broken fragments disown the melody to which is played in a harmonic wanton of systemic channels that the heart discovers in a verbose horizon.

Suicide horizon.

Gold threads, tendrils swarm, bleeding my night time sky, and as the sorrowful sky sung, we bound me in yellow leaf, gold thread, bubbles in jaundice waves. Seeping lilac eyes from my skull, bleeding green into the floor, like the chaos residue that you seethe, whilst twisting clock hands to perception.


- The night is young

- but your heart isn’t.

The End

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