#for satan

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[martyrsuggestion]

the boy whose eyes buzz,

and whose body sways when its dark,

sits on satans ratty couch,

with the lavender incense,

and spills his guts like this;

         listen listen please I'm so afraid of lost her. I was single and she was single and I put all my cards on the table and I already loved her some much and I was calling her honey and she was calling me love and bb and I was writing poetry and it was love and I don't even want to fuck her or kiss with lust i just really love her and and and I only want the soft things like touching my hair and kissing her head and hugging and snuggling and look, listen, we kissed. just twice, just one night, and I wanted to ask her to be mine but I couldn't because everything was so messy and look she's going back to her ex and I think I showed my emotions too quick she’s telling her friends I want to date her but doesn't she see she goaded it? she let it grow? she took all my love in her arms like roses and still she goes back to him but Satan shes calling me love still and saying I love you first and and and I dont know im so lost and im so fucked and sad and and she makes me feel orange and warm and I want her to cradle like like between waves and and an...

that boy trails off,

and tears fill his eyes against the smoking air,

and satan hugs him to his chest,

which is warm and smells like tangerines,

and wood smoke,

and lets that boy sob like hell.

[martyrsuggestion]

Satan sat me on a dirty old couch, in his Elk Lodge, and no music played, and he offered me a cigar. Honeyberry Backwoods exactly, and i took it, and he taught me to smoke. My eyes burning, and his smile too, it was holy there in the soft light.

[martyrsuggestion]

satan has pinups of all nine muses. he loves them, adores them, wishes to master their devotions; he cannot. he cries, silent in the abandoned Elk Lodge. he cries, and he cant do anything about it.

[martyrsuggestion]

a long rolling field. The wheat moves, played with by your gods. the soil is black, rich, and powerful. a deep hum fills your bones; a familiar site. an altar, in bones strange and ash red, you cut your hand here for deity; the hands, for one, the lips, for another, and the chest, for the third. you died on those three steps, reborn thrice with a new word on your tongue; deitriphage.

[martyrsuggestion]

satan, he extends hand, ross and lilac. the choice for you, the choice for her. he is warm, warmer still, the night sky even, he extends hand, love and beauty, this he knows, as do you. satan.

[martyrsuggestion]

Sinatra plays in the back, and Satan sits there in front of you, cool suit, cool look. He doesnt smoke, he just looks sympathetically on.