Another collaboration! This time with the genius toxic--sunrise. She's such a talent and we always seem to be on the same wavelength when it comes to our back and forth poetry. Plus, I'm happy because I think I've finally found my groove back for collaborations.

This marks our third collaboration and I'm really pleased with the result of this, as always, we must do this again. And for those of you looking for her part, she shall be posting it in a few days.

Here are the thumbs to our previous collaborations:
Interstellar LullabyInterstellar Lullaby
i.
call it what you will,
be it minutes or hours of
decaying skin,

or babylon’s legacy
passed down in stories and legends,
word of mouth or the slightest touch
ii.
the blood of the fables,
flow throughout your veins,
trailing down your arms to your wrists,
tips of your digits rearing your claws,
tearing black holes into infinity,
as your vision looks to leave your own tale,
in this ocean of emptiness.
iii.
tide’s out, and it’s been that way for awhile now-
but honey, tides don’t move in the middle of the desert,
you have to build them to flow between rooftop jungles
and hope they’re as good as the originals,
because that’s as close as you’ll ever get

so drown in the sweet smell of silk road smoke,
and bright spices welcoming you to sin city

iv.
then it finally hits you,
like a spacecraft crashing down to earth
carrying extraterrestrials and connivance.
the origin may never be duplicated ScintillaScintilla

it is the start

of new beginnings-
of a new month
and new murders,
but hush, sweetheart,
don't get ahead of yourself

a pyrrhic victory
doesn’t outweigh
the laden effects
of trying to purge
riven cartilage
of a seraphic spirit--
left as a martyr
against the doctrine
of a titan
the body count’s rising,
and it’s all your fault as far
as the poets are concerned-
fault is romance, of course,
but only in a tragedy.

ravels of hair follicles,
wrap around your creased palms,
as you wrench the mind field
of dilettantes.
an explosion of chroma
splattered over a canvas
made of pavement.
the problem, you think, is
there isn’t enough color.
there’s never enough
blue, purple and reds
while she screams, because
bruises on the dead never heal,
and the blood will never
fully wash out of the cracks
poets and writers will romanticize
the whole ordeal, but it is always more bloody
than history books give credit

Also, Lempo is a Finnish God of Lust (or Evil) and is also a mild cuss word in Finnish, as well.