in the beauty of the beast

          In this street-light-flame-lit wildness, the sky burns bright-blue between blood-chilling maelstroms and gasoline rainbows that lead to pots of silicon...  by new-filled Faustian fountains and black-tarred battle-grounds where were-wolves tore the street-signs off for lances, leaving straight-bent-silver 3 foot tall pop-dull pikes.  here, pleasure comes with pain, but you must seek out new daemons or the demons they seek out you...  bereft and begging or hiding ready fangs.
           Please pick the pure-white rose;  pick the gold-leif pure white-rose.  I've tended it many winters; help yourself to the silicon white rose, but we all know it isn't free