I'm quickly learning lessons from the devil, but can't decide whether I arrived or was contrived. I view so many faces from the tower up above, neglected inner wants and hungers for what I love. Cluttered, bunched, black eyed and voiceless. I fill up the sugar cup to stay up at night in my black up above. Where my face is a moon full of craters, with crummy eyes and cyst-thighs, a perfect beacon for the fictionettes who spread their legs wide open on the plasma. Embodiments of everything I hide about myself today. Hips rashed, elastic, crowded, barely wrenched into my upmost ambition for attraction, so I nurse fellow wilted and the withered. Shallow love, smut love, our love in my black upabove. My face is a room full of mirrors, with crummy eyes and blistered thighs, a bent brain full of lies. A beacon for the fiction body voodoo, embodiments in morbid tense. Misplace your grace to chase your copaface.
-Sonny Moore
