Degermination

 Ashamed of everything and skeletal, the pair of whores are pointing long bony fingers toward the demon chariot – their sense is long gone, lost in a fold of material possession some fifty odd years ago. Those beneath them are suppressed, but raise to be the future, and they look down with their chasms of infinite knowledge twisted in a bony maze within their cracked dry skulls. 

All of the world is beneath them. The evergreen trees use their roots to crush the budding flowers. Towering high in black robes made of bark and their expectations. Cloaked in a shroud of decaying skin. They mutilate themselves on the inside – the cancer of superiority ripping as razors would. They paint a canvas from the fallen. 

Look at them, the flesh eating disease consumes them, but they know no restraint, and step on the fields of flowers. They dance, sadistic in their foot movements, twisting and writhing amongst them. Full of regret, the flowers wither and die in the face of such massive power. But such power is a flutter.

Teeth are green from the consumption of the flowers. Their tongues unfurl around the stamen – suffocating it, and the chlorophyll bleeds out into the air – the end result is a wisp of smoke that was will and life. The harlots shed their cloaks, and crawl over the promised land, changing color into a runny and liquid void – their voices call acid rain.

But they harness the power of decay – because it is the final documented walkway. It is the taker of all. And that is why they hold long, bony fingers toward the demon chariot – and say,

“Ride.”

And a bouquet of flowers is hurdled into the depths, thrown into the dark fleshy womb of non-existent hell – the hollow orifice of the decaying whore looks onward, stretching a long bony hand – and waving goodbye. Remnants of the petals drift in midair, only to be caught by that flesh eaten extremity – and raped beyond comprehension – raped by the fist of defeat – the dead fist that rules all.

They dwell upon each other to feed and mate. Twisting around each other’s decaying bodies, the virus breeds and multiplies, and it is cast back upon the earth as waste. A virus towering and gigantic – it lets fear float off of its body in little ringlets of energy – their voices silent as October night and frightening. Nothing dares to grow in its wake. The lines of non-growth patterns the plains – the symbols of hatred that grip the throat of life.

They know not the hatred of the barren earth. Overgrazing the soul, and the offspring, Hell’s Bitches bite hard into the dust – they mutter of no return. Howling like a goat-beast, they return to caves of warm similitude, to watch, to feed upon the next rose. The rose – and its defeat – is a mean of their own mental masturbation, and they all arrive at the climax at the risk of something other than themselves.