Consorts, walking the mausoleums at dusk—boots clicking against the cobbles
where the dead have voices conversing with the granite, each stone a magnet
of breathless secrets to honor infamy when one erases history, listening to the
echoing of California fornication, riding a bikini, masturbating between cracks,
meant for tides of a tsunami rising.
Rated for Mature(17+)
Categories:
PoetryTsunami Rising
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