This old and twisted thing, arranged in awry futility like most lives circumspectly: a pair of denims washed in the Sun, a slow laburnum glowering.
face-ovals perfumed with the camphor of such departure. the hand waving the weight of the night's obsidian is the love i take in - dull or sharp - as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft or a waned piston
this junked engine, wheeled off, looming a light-clenched house with its exhaust of excess. declension. rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk. heavy like the sudden drop of Sunday on the plod of chapels,