Danielle, the Mortician

I want to smash my gens in a desk drawer, this is how I feel,
when i read what she says, what she loves what she fears,
she loves her fears too, and taunts me with her felicitous views,
I feel a sort of fire crawling between various limbs on my body,
if this fails to make visual sense, or any sense for that matter,
it would be appropriate, as it is the case,
my senses deranged, I thought the back of her head was her face,
and her anus was the one true hole that knew what love was for,
there is a connection between her and the holy whore,
she did not need to cut me to taste the syrup below my skin,
I felt sorrow for the way she gagged in the performance of her function,
What kind of man feels love for this brightly lit angel of decay?
Is it love or tender frustration, regret and repentance at the nature of play?
I saw in the mirror the thing i needed to see, that this life is deeper than a mechanical understanding would lead you to believe.
And it's not even a computer, but the metaphor is closer than before, life on these planets is a sickness itself while maintaining inside a seed for the cure.
Her beauty has little to do with her eyes or her skin, though both were soft and dissuaded my guilt over the consummation of our sin.
It's true she was sick, but I always try to reach out: I took a taste of her pussy, I took a taste of her mouth.
I find it strange, my inability to resist the things that i never knew to exist.
And though I didn't burst then, the explosions unfolded in the ritual of the waters which the hate in me scolded.
She smiled and patted my leg in a manner that convinced me she was hiding the heart of the matter, but she knew about my triggers and what sets me on edge, i couldn't help but stumble from the  narrow ledge, and the kitten that waits upon the precipice high was never in danger from ire of the sky, but did she know that in the past they used to call me thunder and I've died too many times to be buried under the ground that she hopes will put her soul to rest, but an idea doesn't die, it waits on the lips for the right kind of moment when tables are turned for the chance to see everything ravaged and burned.  i can appreciate an architect of that impenitent type and the darkness surrounding her is a benefit to the light that shine between us in another time or place, when my money is worthless and and she has her very own taste, not the sugary scent that is required for rehearsal, but the sharp funky flavor defying laws of inertia, and the flames is doubled, hers plus mine, the heat of our bodies and the friction of our minds: please please me and tease me, i won't force you scream, i'll leave when you say something mean,
my flaws are wounds I've left open for you,
to prod and to salt and to squeeze and to use,
I'm sorry I couldn't stand my own strength,
I don't know what value exists in such lengths,
the trips and rips and fabrics undone,
my arms are not for exalting the Sun,
and praising the growth, we're both in decay,
and there is no hope, for a system that works in a manner consistent
with stories we've read and have written, I've listened
to your voice, cracked and oppressed,
I can't believe you're satisfied thinking of death,
but it don't have to be, it can be much more,
especially for you, a diamond? No, a pearl.
A pearl, no, a world, a universe unto herself,
what can we do to aid in the health of the song that she sings,
she knows all the words that could ever be spoken by the most fluent of the birds,
the eagle, the regal, the royalty posed in tableaux according to the scrivener of prose,
and my dance is jaunty, I'm not a thief, I can't wink, but hear what I hear, I can hear what I think,
and I'm a river of water, not a river of ice, not a river of fire, though that could be nice,
for a day at most, once a eon or less, I'm afraid my penchant for judgment is less than the rest,
I'm looking for myself, in all of my forms, I been looking under rocks and found many worms,
but of these creatures I am delighted, I know you can feel my heart when I'm excited,
and often I am prone to wishing in sympathy, but I struggle with It and the things It sees,
but that one time at least you reported to me that we were feeling the same thing, your hands were touching me.
I don't know what to do, please don't call the police, I like to exercise my fingers, they only aim to please.
I don't aim to harm, i'm sorry about that time, i just had trouble believing in a vector so sublime, and me, to see me, me a vermin or bug? I have to build a wall against the things I wish for the things I could love, because I am only granted my wishes so that they may be reversed, by the malevolence born on the pumice/ice shelf where it chases me myself, the fear I cannot forgive, that fear that encourages me not to live.  this is the portion wherein I try to convince myself to publish this letter and let me be myself as the fruity and fanciful faggot i am, no longer a boy, but in what way a man? I have fought and succeeded in several endeavors, in cruelty and kindness, in sweaters and leathers, but my request is simple, do what you want, but stay in this place and continue to haunt, haunt me in the manner that you do with perfection, I am hunger for your visions and delicate dissections, of a beautiful horror, a beautiful name, the words added together always result in the same, and will not escape from the life and the light, I want to share my thoughts if it is alright, and I want you to follow me as I follow you, and recognize the pain that we share when we escape into the dreams that wait for us there.