words

so troubled she dreams in nightmares,
of blood red blackness and pistols,
cowboy hats and dirty hearts
and yet awake she is some gentle creature
who bears witness, who drinks of the sun
and likes pretty things.

it is as the night draws closer
that these two begin to mix and change
until only one remains
and in the crossing she drinks moonlight
and lives in a thick aura, a haze
and is wild, erotic, visceral and alive,
loving, dangerous to no end,
this pinup princess, this musical thing.

she whispers evil words and bites her lip,
her eyes ignite in an aurora
and she is at peace now in this twilight,
in this moment a DMT machine,
hair pulled taut, corset strings hang loose
and we moved the earth, we made it spin
and we chose the axial tilt
to which its turnings are slave to.

she is drawn in by the blackhole
churning at the center of my heart
taking time and space and thought
to the depths of its own swirling turmoil,
a casualty to the nature
of my conflict driven necessity,
survival by novae and emptiness.

panic in the lamplight, fluttering,
a madness mimicked in shadow
as we scratched the surface of existence,
digging through volumes of words
like historians laboring over some rapture,
we were too cool for this world
and so we ventured out to find others,
skating around moons and through galactic rings,
stars marking the progression of our greatness
by leaving bright explosions in our aftermath.

-S.C. Martinez