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 spectral cyclic 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.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
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 spectral cyclic 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.
Request permission to use this poem