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Collaboration: James Swartz, LadyLabyrinth
Lack of water leads to lack of life exposed beneath the Sun like blood from the tip of a Scorpion’s tail Corporal attitudes aligned in spaces battle demented servitude in spotlights stroking the sights of a symbolic death Lack of want leads a woman with her life burning, her all exposed beneath the Sun Thirsting true South, Venus Trap exotic dripping honey ripe to taste, an orchid purple like a plum there swept up in torrid heat, a wet monsoon spreads its wait Tropic of Capricorn, is the sweet Hell he worships offering the tip of a Scorpion’s tail at the alter of her Rosy Crucifixion Bullets bite into the blood spilled from the tip of the Scorpion's tail washing the pain from the spine Clots form like clouds shot from the barrel of a big black hole as time swallows the cost of life In the poverty of his mind Calvary is godless, she shows no mercy in the movement of her quake Bullets from her mouth exchanged upon his tongue sliding fingers to write words along a tight spine Tropic of Capricorn reads his fate, she held it all along The Scorpion’s tail, scorching harpsichord played by lips for want of life to seed on torn sheets, stain pages of Egyptian cotton Saving souls and graces now far too late For the true lovers, sanguine sinners in danger of being forgotten Silent sentences read, given two to Life (LadyLabyrinth/James Swartz, 2019)
Song: “Contaminated”, Banks
"All my Calvaries were rosy crucifixions, pseudo-tragedies to keep the fires of hell burning brightly for the real sinners who are in danger of being forgotten." Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn “There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work. He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.” Anais Nin “The one thing we can never get enough of is Love. And the one thing we never give enough of is Love. A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition.” Henry Miller “I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.” Anais Nin

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