They sit huddled like a hungry pack of hyenas, satiated by bellies inflated with conspiracies of corruption; imagining feeding upon each other. The cancelling of diseases with wars beneath the flesh, chemicals giving us new life, mangled beginnings, freshly birthed manic journeys, consecrated wine, we eat the body of a savoir, nailed to a splintered cross, no more dignity left to the night. The adulteress, quiet with pride and mercilessness, a womb un-giving of life, seeds dispersed upon concrete streets where wanderers roam. The black and whiteness of words, the fruit is a fetus, swelling and the thump of veins keeps the ghosts awake; a blue roar, pure as engraved crystals crushed and trampled out of the earth. Royal as the infected prostitute, eyes of glass during the possession, the cross-fire of enemies who were faithful companions in the unforgiving past. Empty whiskey bottles lying on their sides, with not another drop of inspiration to bestow, wings broken deliberately, burnt moths entering nirvana, savage thick drying blood lapping against her thighs. He spoke the truth for the first time when he wept deep into the infinity of the night.
The depth of red in the photos I uploaded, due to the current emotion.