Filthy Pilgrim
By: Loris Charmane
An ocean of
blood so blue of a crepuscule break,
Shadows so
firm, thus a glitching temple of the earth:
Too futile
for a feature of a dwindling morpho.
Too golden
of October, so less of creed—
A whisper
of suffocation on a blessed flesh.
Aren't the
vigilant sailors suffocated yet?
They sing
the anchors' vices,
Dance a
nectar's curse.
Beholden to
those prophecies,
An ichor of
a cloying cloud's wound—
Wriggling
with toenails beneath the tongues' buds.
They bellow
a cavalier's moan,
Brave they
call their decomposition:
Whose grave
do they owe their breaths?
Whose pews
are left unpaid of sins—
A decoy
they bequeath on a worm's hamartia,
Or a tooth
they've stolen from a slivered gum?
Men of an
abominable form—
Of a face
as sore as the sun's disreputable daughter,
They
glorify their dug-up fear on an anglerfish's bones—
So feminist
are the Gods of Fins that their clothes glow with pink and wisdom.
Men of
ludicrous romance,
Eyes shine
of crime and plunder.
Myriads of
beasts, empty of veins—
Their
hearts beat solely,
For women,
they can scare.
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