my turtle doves are pondering the broth of my head space. tingling. they gibberish the nest and lay eggs of dragons that still believe in dragons. they wish for thick lightning in the lustrous void. they beak the shell of no made thing. the Eternal Hum. the one Always that had Never Begun. Only Ever, Ever Been. and That's It's Name.
my turtle doves are robbing the bog of it's undead wyrms. they swoop in the morning.
down down down to the gamma ray golf course lawns of our suburban necrophilia. the one with the empty dreams in their peanut butter stars. the one with the eggshell Camary Toyotas and the delinquent epiphanies. n' more ice cream than Ben n' Gerry's ******* of Selling More ******* ice cream than You can Imagine. Plus One.
my turtle doves are holding me hostage. in the dizzy breach. of god's contract. a damp shade of misspent youth. the Old Way. seasoned by the Eons and the swollen Love of the First Love. engorged in the Kingdom of Desire like a fat mosquito. Sated on Cyclopian forearms. and the shoulders of Giants on a small blue world in your mouth.