This Is It

Red is for the virgin horde, maple crimsoned New England autumn

Disjointed fathoms of the dawn excavated beneath a sea of

Silver hair and forked tongue eyes.

A razorblade grin opens my wrists, bathing us in its warm amniotic fountain on cold humid nights outside the State Theatre.

It’s 9:30 and Ybor’s choked with cheap drugs and hard sex as a shrill, tinny voice parts soliloquies unto my dreaming ear-

“I shutter

and thus I prove to be-

a furious cancer upon the shadow of shit gorged flies.”

Awake to a dream above the stars-

What dawn is this?

Virbius lapping at Diana to feed sick little perverts with cunning absentation,

All when suddenly a woman appears- sun-gilded and mounted upon a motorized wheelchair

(her father was a raging masticator with hair trigger jaws).

I remember a mechanical hum and blinding aurora shade, while saint Icarus the mundane

Blessed my dope sick longing for her lips.

“Cover your mouth If you’re going to seize!”

And then-

It’s kind of like sun when you really want rain, an imperfect infection on our progress report.

Suffering stale cigarette perfume and black coffee toothpaste, my guts twisted like a sausage noose-

Spitting rhetoric from a mouth bloodied with words and choking on sand

“Witches burn brightest against grey winter dawns”

Where a hard-boiled god sits in a vacant parking lot and masturbates to a mirror reflecting a dejected Cinderella stare

This is it.

–––– Jonathan Renfield

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