Pop Eternity

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She is complexion,
born under the sign of love.
Eats the stars
bleached in cold water tones.

Edible, late.

Shares the same passion for blood
as our wrists, floating
from vain existence
to exhausting lovemaking.
Destroyed by the self-inflicted sucicide,
born under camera lenses.
Edible,
killing the possibilities
with an uncanny taste for style.

Groin blows from rise to fall
it hurts - a lonely hurt.
Meat relationships turned out impossible.

It sucks when
heaven is late.
Postcards from your movies.
Sleeping pills turned out lingerie.

This rooms smells of eternity.
Of all the body scents,
you TV popsicle,
it had to be yours.