The Doorbell.

In the light of the sun

you sleep in the deep dark

abscess of your soul.

In dreams your red tears stream

down your sharp cheeks

and arrowed chin

and down into the abyss

of your black velvet clothes.

Dusk is your alarm clock

as the cool air licks at your snow skin.

Pale and clammy

you wipe the rust from your face

and rub your rejuvenated eyes.

You stretch your wiry legs,

crick your cold, narrow neck

and get ready for the evening.

A few drinks here,

a little canoodling there;

under the scythe of the moon

you hope for some necking

and pecking of the flesh.

A gannet for the gore juice,

you always go for those

who are young,

who will belong

with the beautiful and the damned.

Eternally burning

for the naked smoothness

and hollow grooves

of your sacred place.

In that pumping pulse you are home.

No more darkness

or tears in the morning,

no more hunger for intimacy

and fear of being alone.

This beat will not destroy you.

She will not destroy you.

This pulse is your doorbell;

this heart is your home.


One response to “The Doorbell.

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