my Judas

when i was a child i gambled my view on you.
The light was nineteen eighties. Your flesh was handcrafted by artisans, and never did you notice.
Then the records would play sexual mornings to me.
And I was crafted by my crush, formed by ice cream and butcher knives, and wrestling moves.
We made a dance. We cast spells and forgot about you in time for supper.
My sister was my witch hound. My sister made the brews.
A nakedness once displayed by you wont fade- its in my movie, its my biological fuck pad.
Your absence of shame in your nest was capable of forging a volcano that still moans.
Here i am now legal and you are back into the fray.
Sometimes I see you in a motorcar, casting out telepathic signals to women. I catch them in time to not
know if you want to kill me or use my shell for discreet motives.
Many episodes have been viewed since your change. You've grown but still the intense statue of a man, angry and sad enough to hold you into me forever in protection.
Does your vehicle have a backseat to accommodate a romantic?