(to see his prompt, click here)
The darkened man on hell’s stage, poetry dripping
Like curses from his mouth, the stream drying into muddy streets so that
the fish can’t swim,
buried prayers of ancient madmen push up through the red coal sand
his greasy rain draws evil up to the Earth above.
She loved him once, his lyrical Sunday school perversions stinking in the backseat, the blasphemy sweet like his tongue on her nipple.
The boy that he was is just a shadow now, a rainbow spectre of happy days, a polaroid overexposed, the flames licking at the edges so that it curls and bubbles.
The hoofs on the roof of his house clip clop in the memory of his infant ear, the beat beat beat through the roof and down the stairs, past the door where his mother,
his human mother, dreams fitful syrupy dreams of sharp angled (angelic) liaisons in a field of ash.
that girl who loves him,
calls aloud every night to her demon god, wishing him to her on the silver-backed clouds so that she is awoken with sulphuric kisses flitting to her nostrils, the heat prickling the paint from her walls.
She calls but he isn’t coming.
His pale face mumbling dance calls (curses, rages) at his father, the deadened nerve endings of the world screaming for him as he raises his hands in defiance then chops them down, slicing the humid air into pieces that grow into an island belt of a potent archipelago, the lands filling with the souls of the winged, the wounded.
The prayer continues unabated, unsated, until he raises his arms, the claws now pushing up from under his fingernails so that they curl like ornate daggers into his palm, drawing blood. As the music stops and dies
(and the girl)