silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves strangled in noxious space.
android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers and a solitary weight of love.
this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill: a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;
a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.
cyclic spectralcyclic spectral
there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor? can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures? butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******.
again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,
in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.