Cup of Midnight

There's a bitter black tea 

At my favorite cafe,

Wormwood black, like a poisonous

Dark chocolate,

That I like to guzzle on a

Wet, windy day;

So perfectly perverse, so warm and

Tingley to my pallette.

When October turns cold and my

Temper turns brittle,

Solace seems as off as the

Sweetness of Spring.

Shedding the skin of a

Wiltering flower,

The crow and the raven within me

Must sing.

Like showers of kisses, with hints of

Smoke and ripe cherries,

And passions pulling thick as wads

Of black licorice,

I'll fall, diving down with you

Into dust,

And die in the moment to make

Everything perfect.

She Only Appears In Parties

She only appears in parties,

Like an actress portraying a molly induced hallucination, she’s vivid, shimmering, and delightfully playful.

I can taste her aroma,

The tantalizing mix of cigarettes, vaginal secretions, and sweat. Potent, attractive, an ashy pit of decadence.

Yes, I like it a lot,

The bitter sweetness she contains of unfiltered filth and fun. Leather wrapped amorality, unashamed of her flesh.

Pleasantly annoying,

I admit the masochist in myself enjoys how she irks me, flirting and skirting around at her leisure.

I should have that,

I think, as though I could store her inside my dresser, Like I could call her out to play as I desired.

She’s like a rainstorm,

She’s ominous and pretty, only following the whim of nature. I like getting caught in her when she comes.

She only appears in parties,

The life on which she feeds and regurgitates back for everyone. A pretty apparition of social lust.

But nothing more.