Mason

Surely you of all people should be able to guess. Not a soul
can escape from your premonitious grasp of laudanum drops, burning
the blue-flame sugar cube resting on absinthe. How are you
so bloody useless? That moleskin pad sprout any remarkable examinations?
Grape vines and testimonies of an ancient ritual inhabited by flies. Leaching
pleasures and diseases altogether, like a radiant abyss being pissed on, from wealthy
kidneys of a special branch grandfather. Gruesomely fantastical paintings,
walking over countless graves, of Prince Jack. The ripper inflicted with syphilis
handing out telling punishments, the human anatomy. Brothers of the Light
vowed to protect an Empire, a throne mightily missing illegitimate heir.
Still, you stand before me, dreaming a wine hallucination that has yet to occur.
Tainted gloves and wrecked carriages, not a thing common of the two,
except schizophrenia and the unfortunates. The green and grey hues in his eyes
after the frontal lobe piercing are drooling but they will never be of match
to the couple of gold coins eclipsing your eyelids.