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Ghost in a Snail Shell

In the alleys of mirrors, reflections stare back with faces I've yet to covet. The cacophony of screams and whispers, a post-coital slack-jawed pause, the aftermath of endless nights and getting lost in vorpal holes of unwritten rules. Where pornographers masquerade as poets, sacrificing Eros on the altar of analysis. I squirm on the auto-da-fé of your ardor, land of disco balls and dementia shops, every step a temptation to drown in this make-believe proposition — lost prostitute histrionics downslope. Where lies persons end of having no escapes— ? In vacancy lots of mind haste, I find a faze in the scars of my past memories, ghosts of my mistakes, the lingerings of taste and lust. They're the only constant in this toxic haze, the only truth I can hold onto.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2024




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Date: 11/14/2024 2:53:00 PM
I’m in the funhouse here, - catching your captivatingly drawn circus scene, - as always, heartened for sampling your lurid lovely prose.
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