in the first beginning, where we bled rhinestones and ate glass, the stars were pink.
tonight, baby, we’re riding no breaks all gas so put on your worst fucking pink.
hedonistic indulgence is our spirituality and there’s nothing left but our ash
maimed hands, our failed plans, our flood stained pants and the color pink.
they say there ain’t nothing like this $3 PBR, this chernobyl noir, this divine
dive bar where destruction tastes like dirty confession. or a full blush, reality pink
with anticipation. poseidon father. medusa mother. a Pegasus born from blood marries
his own perfect wings, the fairytale’s happy longing scrappily stitched with pink trim
as our fractal night shatters into now. tits out and powerful, the mystical takes
the form of our momentum. the immortal underbelly of our winged becoming glowing pink.
pink. the muddy in-between of purity and blood defies blossoming. they say this hot
pink dress means she’s kinky when she steps up at the club to dance, their maggot hands
gusseting pink. she chews bubblegum as they crawl past her shimmering hyacinth
thighs. an untamed god huddles beneath to drink. through her underwear, a corpse flower
pink flows like neon Barefoot Moscato. we call consumption what it is. lying.
naked. beneath phosphorescent eyes, atonement takes the form of oneness.
pink sin is a communal reconciliation or otherwise a sacrifice. all of us know this.
their country songs can’t claw through our thongs so we write new realities in the petals
of mortality, of love for pleasure unbending in holy juncture with sorrow. this isn’t possible
in another world, one holy good in essence – tonight I’m ass out fucking, pink.