Amphora

ready.   or.   not.
 

 

into.   this.   one.   look at Him rising already accustom to His costume. if Santa has a birthday, well Hell, so does He, and non-specific He had His outfit laid out, all ready to go. He has to make real difficult life decisions and voting behind dressing room curtains is not just a piece of velvet cake, but His fighter engine slices away anyway. He makes choices, and a rare pair of flare heels, the same ruby hue as King Louis XIV’s bed chamber, will fatefully be stomping down the taste buds of the slip-of-the-tongue Netflix-red carpet, and at the edge, He’ll pivot and jump the gun as every detail of His is recorded. He'll be looking so goddamn hot He'll be pure fire, and from the pit, La Reine’s symphony will play to roaring women as He finally takes the fall down under to meet His mansion, an old flame, in deepest core complex of His circuit-spiraling world, where He is all ready for the rosy waves of Hell.

 

world.   on.   fire.   look at camel storage humps pumped with oil, then this fella in the face who never has enough room in His closet. He already owns every bloodthirsty Bloodhound dress, so He’s got to have latest intestinal design that’s so fierce, none will be fit enough to even handle it. He'll be sickening in it, killing in it, hoofing down the infamous hall’s runway, kissing His self repeatedly in all its mirrors whilst taking selfies of His own reflection. He was made for maids donning basic Raggedy-Andy-tired attire to find last straws He lawfully deserved, and better believe He'll give lip because He wasn’t against His own self, the center of the world, naked and isolated, bound by Madonna’s monodrama virgin-surrender-white swaddling cloth, ready to go so low as to pray for a globule of water in a third-world country, no not ever, because forever ago, He was already all ready for the private hollows of Hell.

 

ending.   with.   one.   look what it feels like as raw sand wars inside His kidney brain construct the entire Earth as imaginary, because maybe He’s as real as Satan in Dante’s infernal crown, and He is not crazy, not to get what He wants. so, He'll get His life and wear His vintage Jimmy Dean rebel-red hide over His bloody sweats, fitted to His sack of bones, that will leave all in tears, and He'll huff his last puff of nailing passion out of His mouth like an old corporate church dragon to ignite one erect candle on His birthday island cupcake, blanketed in rich Philadelphia cream-cheese icing, and like one of Donne’s microcosms, all in the w.hole w.ide w.orld will carbonize from harp chills of machine arms defending desert fashion traditions, flashing recording lights, and holy Taco Bells tolling for the shrillest stage names who read Him for filth on being all ready for His Old American Dream already.  
 

He.   was.   born.