Eros in Hell

Do the wounded ever heal
or is there always a
remembrance?
A faint shadow of a gap.

Fingers here once stirred
the tiny crevices,
drunk on texture,
zealous for examination.

A love for peeling back
the subcutaneous exits,
revealing the dancing
red blood tribes.

How they grimace,
deep red lava stomp,
slowly they advance,
they never truly fade.

Spring-loaded, in precision,
the head snaps back,
those woeful eyes
and languid mouth;

climaxed, exhausted,
but somehow propelled forth
by unseen, unveiled fear,
affinity itch, l'angoisse.

They are the relentless
excavators of slight film.
A seething apparition
of straining desire,

submerging itself
in a loose struggle,
sinking into torpid black,
clutching to silted bedrock.

Cursed wanderer,
the vast desert alludes.
Consult the blind oracle,
frenetically rolling bones.

Forwards, backwards,
manic and brutal,
prophesies discharge
like loathsome bullets.

The primordial rhetoric,
Nimrod in a K-hole
sputtering, gnashing,
contortioned in ice.

The frenzied wind
beats our broken bodies.
This where we stand
now having final sight,
in disillusion, ninth circle.