• _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 4w

    Credits : Geoffery Hill (the hell line)

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    / Cyanide /

    This is a song of revolution, a strum of hope
    And baby, you must let me kiss my idle conviction onto the skinbreak under your left eyebrow
    You call November to your rooftop and whisk into its listless, ancestral territory like a heroine
    But you shrink, and you shrink and you shrink like overwashed linen
    You count the inches of love on your waist when you must count the cruel, merciless winters they've helped you live
    So, let me hold you up to the firelight at the far end of this alleyway
    And remind you of the starbursts and rainbows your melting laughter gives
    You're the raspy voice that doesn't falter when the sunbeams cease and the curtains fall
    And darling if we met in hell, it wouldn't be hell at all

    Oh ! You of the tainted feverish skies
    and untamed graffiti on semi-urban walls
    I know you've dreamt of Syrian girls with crooked teeth
    and crushing crayons with Warhol
    Your blood thrives on arson, you lick hate like propane under the October snow
    and set yourself aflame
    You are treason. The treason of an artist ~
    a faceless artist with a calloused heart and a disease without a name
    You're addicted to the terrible glory of perpetual torment, the banality of pain
    (And baby, I'd rather let you lick a little cocaine)

    Oh ! You of a hundred years of longing
    and a hundred flavours of resurrection
    You sit by funerary ash and cemeteries because they remind you
    Of your inconsequentiality, the brilliant fragility of your humanness freckled like the flowers of the sun
    Because it eases you to know that the earth is desperately holding on to love entrails, terrified of letting go too
    You bake sweet potatoes - all terracotta red, childishly warm and wrapped in peels of hope
    And baby, I swear you make me delirious
    like the smell of an archaic romance running cold


    Oh ! You of the rosen unstirred clouds
    and the golden threads of an unsung tapestry
    What a shame it is that you must not be allowed to see your own divinity
    That you must not be allowed to witness the lifetime of  fireworks in your eyes
    When you
    talk of Ares and Aphrodite and Icarus and when you mouth ~
    "Does the fall really matter to him who flew ?"
    That you must not be allowed to bear testimony
    to the sempiternal fire in the centre of your breastbone and how it paints your cheekskin the warmest tones of pink from the inside
    And baby, you could steal the breath of a crippled nation's God faster than cyanide

    To girls and boys with freckles and tattoos || 27.10.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_