Floating

A Night in Babylon

The scent of blood is in the air, and I am hunting a Tin heart. There is a correlation between moments and meat here that I am tasked to riddle out, caught up in the under currents and subplots of cohesive dramas... and gods damn it I am bleeding. I am of a firmly particulate nature, solid of mass and wretched purpose, but it is oblivions dusky taint that drags me further... not that I lack will, but more that a sunset seems so fitting between these facetious sheets. It's the dreams of prolific self agitation and hedonic violence that bid me find a warm core to taste.... to tend a different garden and breach a bastion yet unnamed. And I will follow her sultry voice along the horizon and perhaps sup at new feasts left bloodied and wrenched apart at the ribs. I'll lower my guttural maw to the vitals of portentous dreams and gnaw ceaselessly on the visage of tomorrow's love. The pavement will ring with the sounds of my hooves beating a tattooed rhythm into the city night, cutting from the air it's own arrogant demands. I shall walk tall and broad into whiskey after whiskey and take hold of the meat of dusk... I'll stalk the incandescent pools to find prey that hunts back, and there... maybe... seek a home. Seek a few grievously saccharine moments carved into my mattress... and take hold of something softer than myself. And as always, lower my maw into the vital spots of a new conquest.