praise be to the birth

of lavender, the slaughter

of a decaying

godliness still lingering

in the cold, sinister air.


silence! for our god

must rest; her genesis

is our lullaby.

for if she wakes she becomes

the harbinger of stained sex.


her skin is gorgeous.

its radiant purple glow

beckoning the dead

to partake in our fragile

cult of queer delirium.


pause! the interlude

is here! that space full of ghosts,

astray heartthrobs who

left their underground homes to

see the discolored faces of 


lovers, alive and

suffering. but wait! our god

is everlasting!

her touch the autograph of

sappho, an embellishment.