smoke dried lips mumbling in a slippery prayer
skin kneaded in wreaths of crystalline paranoia
bead by sweaty bead at a time
I might just be hunting my miss fortune in hell
Is that her voice or my ringing knell?
God! I don't even believe in you.
For you were never really as necessary as her
I think she's trapped by countless concrete walls,
Waiting for some slave of voodoo dolls,
To rescue her from her contemporary prison
That only allows her a contemporary freedom
I guess there's a diminishing sense of lust involved
Libido evaporating into the summer mirages
Irritated, I wonder if I would ever be able-
To irrigate Venus with fluid fascination
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