Lorenzo Buford
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Torments of the flesh,
Storms of the flesh, Storms of the senses, are dark clouds of erotic desires and this rain of heat is leaving me sacrificial to appease Strangers' tongues that are like lightning that will not illuminate my mind but only leave crevices in the flesh of Strangers' workings that are made to house fragments of this Soul. This dark male mother weeps in the spillage from phallic storms. There is no shelter from the elements that are gathering to make a new house that is a prison rooted in the insanity of Strangers as I ingest the aftermath of their erotic masturbations. I am a Thing not named that is twisting in its dark passions while thundering with orgasms that leave me wandering in madness because no touch has healed my weeping that is rooted in shadows when I am exiled from the Beloved so I have twisted myself into alleys for Strangers to walk to appease their dark yearnings as my forms sit in the windows beckoning Strangers to feed their hungers. I am thundering in time and space from twisting and screaming in strangers' phallic storms. Storms of flesh are devastating the mindscapes I have made to find my selves. Storms of senses are drowning the garden; that rises from dark passion and made a bar in the sexual underworld, and have ejaculated a graveyard where I sit on a tombstone throne with a vampire lover. and yet, somehow this phallic pillar that I am, stands among these chaotic indulgences. This inscribed pillar stands waiting in many multi-dimensional forms to awaken the Light into the Life. |
