Scarlet Letter

I am tired of the tundra of the mind
Where the remnants of hedonistic sighs shaded with
Adjectives of scale and textbook platitudes

Are buried as earthenware silt underneath
Fingernails of stuporous men pausing only
Before enunciating the syllables of venereal names.

Victorian curtains leak the iridescent fall of light
Rendering the bare walls of intimate trysts incardnadine
With burnished flesh characterized as three fifths of purity.

Cloistered in a sepulchre as the wax of blackened candle wicks
Melt as tear drops cascading down the cheek of night
While benedictine monks subdivide the precincts of sacred and profane.

They gesture scarlet letters in godlike judgement and hastily compose
Makeshift mantras about the physical manifestation of the earth’s emotion
Disheveled manes or the frayed strands of
Heaven diverging and splitting hairline wide.

Saturn in the twelfth house descending was like
Surfacing from cycles of karmic debt and
Swirling through subconscious atonement
Pleasure slips through the suggestion of curve while

Lovers cringe lying on tiled floors under blankets of sin as
Golden fists governed exclusively by raised eyebrows unravel the
Brutish inevitability of sex which made lost things reappear.

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