(Sin City, Frank Miller) That all We killer whores, shivering with cold monkeys contemplating the horizon from a sick tree, princesses looking in the dark, crying, searching the words that we can never say ... (or as we have said we have no more than the unbearable whistle ringing in the ears) ... that the misunderstanding we live and plan our life cycles, at least is what I said Bolan ... and it was so wrong.
all have at heart the complex and perverse need to destroy our own tales of enchanted forests, bite them to pieces, tear the last bit to see covered in blood every treasured moment of magic that can defile no fault to the messianic candor of first kisses and trample the scraps of every moment saturated with inspiration, do not cheat us.
Let us not seek, not a disservice to our idolatry and our sweat, we can change into wolves hungry for love, sex or even blood to complete dismembering each orgasmic moaning the words that nobody wanted (or dared) to listen because it was sweeter the pain of ingrown toenails in the back that infamous pleasure as being contaminated.
princesses that we are not alone, we also satisfy the sweet taste of the most bitter revenge, we can look into the eyes not yet open and inventory every inch of skin known and skipping to know everything that burns inside, between the limits, venturing desire (real or imagined) of each existence washed off by the sun.
And finally, for a murderous goddess, nothing smells worse than chewing the visceral pleasure of passion that is born and dies in rhetoric, singing drunk, filthy, perverse and insatiable, the rhetoric of mourning, the sonnet dead conjugate verse swollen lips nor anything smells and tastes sweeter than a hot and makeup of oblivion awaited revenge.
"Nemo me impune lacessit"
(Poe)
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