french press sludge

i wake up to a french maiden that presses stimulation
she’s singing a guatemalan tune into my body

i like you under my fingertips where i can feel you up close
but this is not the post-coital union i was dreaming of

with lips that taste like butane and peanut butter jelly
drinking the sludge until it aggravates my belly

volcano erupted like mother earth’s crotch
after a flow of hot fire in the lavatory

the music will still play on long after you’re gone
so inspired so leave if you must

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The Grim is dark but clear

Simmering strong in some tequila tendencies
Depressive drinking breeds intoxicated insecurities

Do you ever just see faces
In spaces where they shouldn’t be?
This is more than a creak in haunted places…
A wraith is wreaking havoc on the balcony.

“You look like you’ve been soaking
in liquor a little too long…
I bang out your head to Jesus Christ!”

You think you might know someone
‘til you just meet Death

direct myself with an aura of mystery and mysticism

Winter woods Witch floating near Saturn
Wants to accessorize with some icy rings
“Call me Shiva

Sometimes it still snows in July
Living in the woods alone

I operate under a cloak
Of mystery and surrealism
Dosed on my mysticism”

//
(I’m compelled by mystery)
(No particulars)
(Just the things you can’t see)

(It could be about anything)
(Just make something up)

(Remove a few key details)
(Leave it to the audience to decide)
(Filter a conclusion through new eyes)