The Moscow freezing sleet and snow, the sadness and sickness beneath the 5th floor, the gray depression, and red blood streaming from the nose. Prostitutes and our poisons, no one is crying, a slick, icy transaction, human, animal, and organ trafficking. I draw a circle around everyone, a golden crucifix touching the hands that have been kissed, emperors and veils, the naked, raw, closed doors, and one molten heart to go.
A playful priestess outfit, a straight razor carving V's into the chest, the open flesh, learning anatomy again, a small hand holding up a dead battery, pink mist, fading, twilight, blinding symphony.
A pure thing out there like music in a snowstorm, cars sleeping under the frozen blankets, a glowing, yellow streetlamp just like Dostoevsky's White Nights, shimmering and scintillating, spitting miracles, the heavy, wet, breaking snow.
The eyes of the blind, the bitter, lumbering crowd, the steam machines and their black memories, a purple, bruising drift of arms and legs, and the tragic footsteps on the path. The precious, cloudy flowers are chosen, incandescent souls in the dark, our arctic breeze, and perfumed hair—I don't miss summer and sunshine; I loved you once; I don't love you anymore.