In the hollow, lined chamber, the brass heart does not beat it clicks a rhythm of aphrodisiac’s inevitable decay of my soul. There is no poetry in this machine, only the masturbating hands haunting the piston that drives my insanity, clicking, its ruthless clockmaker’s cocksucking free verse, ricocheting off,”The Tell-Tale Heart”









Passionately penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian
God, this Evil got to me! You excel in the extremities of Sin like no other, Atticus.
I eat dark tea leaves so that my ink bleeds insanity. Thank you harriet-jacqui xx.
Thought so, Atticus! After all, it takes one to know one.