Footsteps on mud

They are derelict structures
Inhabited not even by flowing air
They are tongues that osculate
With no one but themselves
Their eye's feast
 are pneumatic bodies
As Their hands work to mould, towers or poles of pleasure
They are worshippers in bodies
Made as shrines
Their hearts are burning candles
And passion is the incense.
Coil.
Recoil.
Ululate.
Their lips sing glossolalia
While their chests seeks room to breathe into
They precipitate slowly
Like mistmag
Then they find themselves the ground,
when they find that no wine
Or product of the vine
Holds the joystick to their brain
It was them all along
All trampled upon
There's many footsteps on this mud.
El Romantique