milk & eggs – Courtenay S. Gray
November 25, 2021
oh, the hushed hemorrhaging of you.
we must do away with old fashioned
values. they call us lecherous and that
may be true, but they are the liars. sex
is dirty, raw, and full of masochistic
tenderness. is violence not symbiotic
with love? when we love we free
ourselves from ordinary existence.
we bathe in the opulent rose water of
the fluids that pass through our veins.
oh, the danger of it induces adrenaline.
how foolish were we to believe that
every story has a happy ending. the
fragile truth is that death is the nucleus
of love. the dome of it looks like a
blueberry. your death brought out
the violence in me. the absorbing
rage made a sapphire out of my skin.
every spectator in the world continued
to argue about the trap door of menial
life. my tears have lost weight somehow.
while the terracotta brown nail polish
may have been bitten more times than
the inside of my cheek, I bit into you
with such a repugnant ardour that I
almost pushed you back to her. feeling
her dramatic sting feels calmer than
the chaos I bring. oh, little human,
little human. oh, little fool. we seek
out pain and beg for mercy afterwards.
Paris is a hedonist’s ultimate fantasy.
fattened by croissants and mille-feuille
we’d raise our glasses and toast the
ignorance of street folk. later, you’d
prick my finger with a thorn taken
from the cemetery and you’d savour
every drop like wine. the violence
of human existence lives long enough
to become both pornographic and
historical. to die in Paris would be
an erotic lullaby.