Kitsch A feathery lightness filtered through and the hollow barrel smiled a little. Its victory won a sublime new, I was told by the fallen skittle. A bitter sweat pooled in the ground yet the thirst for red could not wait. Mounts of death rose all around, men had set their selves as bait. This and a sour world, he writes to me from a vacant void. The frozen corpse of beauty thawed to wash off the grime of fallen age. But then she saw the virtuous fraud and smacked her lips in vicious rage. A soul was sold bereft of name in stealthy marts of the greedy eye. Yet not one itch nor a tear of shame kept hands off the pleasing pie. This and a sour world, he writes to me from a vacant void. Naked buds of my springtime were deflowered by the angel smile. Flesh of bread in buttery prime, they sucked and sucked, till out came bile. A crippled love set deep in stone called to me from the depth of sigh. But I was stuck in kitsch of my own – could not blame the God of sky. This and a sour world, he writes to me from a vacant void. Red is Absurd
Posted on: Fri, 21 Jun 2013 20:06:03 +0000
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