You were crafted from smoke and necessity. Bad breaks and broken beds and bent over. Fate’s unintentional, born again to busted lust. Wisps and faeries swaddling you in jaded armor, more grave than cradle. Utter self-immolation just beyond your grasp, and consistently escaping the bitter poison of warm contentment by just…that…much Plundered, picked-over, discounted if…… Continue reading The Last Middle-Aged Baby Doll
The tatted arms were nothing but a contrived ruse, camouflage for an urban blind, a hunt, a stalking. Sleeved with ink, fueled with endorphins, driven by the waft of pheromones and alcohol and simple, unmitigated vitriol, I strike. Understood by few, connected to fewer, I focus on you. Your pulse a droning, drowning focal point,…… Continue reading St. Punk of Jaded Urge
As the fog hangs low And the Blood Moon wanes When the chill of the night Haunts my mortal remains Under shadow and curse With hellish delight I rise with a hunger Foretelling your plight My whisper a haunting A plague of desire My touch like the embers Of your funeral pyre I rise up…… Continue reading With Hellish Delight
The knife drew crimson on your pale skin, and I felt you inhale. Nothing but a tiny, shallow cut. Enough to get both of our attention. The glint of the blade reflected back your bare beauty. One single little droplet falls to your breast. Your heart thumping from new thrill. From slight danger. From soft…… Continue reading One Crimson Drop
The Wistful Sinner 