kalischild

I can taste the poetry of madness on the wind.

It tastes like desert clay and bonfire ash.

It tastes like dust on your thighs.

It smells like mad boys with black pistols, and sour-wine sweat.

It feels like hot sun on rusted steel, desert heat and crucifixion sex.

The slow, deep grind of a frustrated apocalypse reaching for release.

The rythmm of ancient drums, wider than the desert, and twice as deep as time.

In a city where dust-ridden rats with glittering onxy eyes gather in graveyards of shattered whisky bottles.

I go there to scream, and burn, and bleed.

I go there to be open, and so as not to fade.

I go there only to whisper to you all my lies.

I go there to be with you.

-O-

P.S. Oh, and to drink a lot, start fights, and make fun of fatties and people of Portuguese descent. And to have sex with hott Nordic heroin addicts. And to interrupt people having sex in their tents at two in the morning with impassioned readings of Harlequin Romance novels. Oh, yeah... Steal cars and drink me some Jager. Piss on a sleeping Ranger. Make fun of firedancers.

You know, spiritual stuff.

Did you miss me?