THE DEVOURING FORTRESSES

1.

The tenderest of once blessed twins in time will turn to tyrants, their jumbled, tangled genitals their second thoughts, a head of knots, the torture tethers them together.

How neatly must they nibble then, and wrestle sideways through the thicket, using teeth to tear through  nerve and every tempting tendon.

Methodically progressing, crawling, creeping towards castration, such kisses shred the subtle skin and semblance of each others' sex, such craft in stripping carcasses a butcher's algorithmic hex.

Hear how hollow bones become when blowing out the marrow. Such calls to careful slaughter cleave, rend cavity to cavern, such surgey cosmetic greed from cultivating cruelty.

2.

The consequence of passing passion left lonesome poltergeists in Paris, their plaster portraits grave or careless, a pair of calcified cacoon cathedrals. When winter came they held communion, began the ceremonial long digestion, a season's procession presided over by the Saint of All Suggestion.

That season spent in secret, collecting their secretions, each a potent liquid means for weaponizing reason.

In the Hague they both drew blood, for the first time face to face, beneath The Monster's southeast shadow. As good a place as any for their final battle.

From floating fortress factories, they stand at the helms of their war machines, twin faces first fashioned then broken by dreams. Where once were two friends now stand two fiends.

3.

There is a valley wet, and dripping with memory still, a steaming cauldron of a hollow, where a black lake is roiling and bubbling up shadow that betrays any thought of its bottom.

The tyrants suck the oil and shade until there twist two rivers. Defying gravity and time, these soon become torrential, a pair of rippling velvet ribbons like snakes ascending alabaster, seduced by the songs and the tremors sent from newly haunted nests.

Each atop their miniarette sees the other as swelling machine sillhouette. Their windows barred, gates firmly bolted with all the walls and ways now closing, every surface bends and births a thousand newborn knives. Fresh fangs extend and salivate, martriculating malice stretching out to taste.

The towers rise like silent sharks from cresting granite tides. As if bowing in reverse they rise, their gaping maws stretched wide reveal a swarm of clockwork razors. Ten thousand spinning saws whose singing shrieks and wails as wind, as bitterness made manifest it echos through the valley then.

4.

Their fortress mechanations, now a rigid black metallic, condemn the earthen gray and sky blue seas, as vaginal and phallic.

Fortified against all fucking, the castle bunkers start spelunking, sending soldier tendrils searching steep and slender highways, to find and feast until replete on flesh and fat and bone beneath, between two friends so it begins, the fucking of the teeth.

The fiends stay firmly hunkered in the furthest fortress towers, with corridors collapsing the machines can still devour. The castles crash and crack, confirming mutual consumption. Two tyrants torn to tatters by treasonous assumption.

The parody of pleasure is the murder calculation. Fate it seems turns fools to fiends so by fate are friends forgotten.