Staccato-sex. Can you feel the damnation in the
trickling water of minutes? This fragment considers
revising but in the next act, I will turn you into a miracle:
a cloud of a sigh into rarefied air, and that is all.
The ******* of women hang in trees. Consider this statement
a ruthless compunction. Flesh in the market, I haggle prices
with the butcher. I’ll take one in exchange for a love
christened with portent, I gave it no unction – fresh as a fruit’s glaze
in spring, or the crunch of dew somewhere along Baguio in the morning,
intestinal roads frothing with excess of fog. Consider trees
in akimbo past your sweltering window – the panes in feverish heat,
what are you to do but splash water? Bathe. ***** Sully.
We have no inertia in this feetless adagio. Wind is sandpaper.
Pain is tactile. I am a ****** paving the way, crucified on no longitude-latitude.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
Staccato-sex. Can you feel the damnation in the
trickling water of minutes? This fragment considers
revising but in the next act, I will turn you into a miracle:
a cloud of a sigh into rarefied air, and that is all.
The ******* of women hang in trees. Consider this statement
a ruthless compunction. Flesh in the market, I haggle prices
with the butcher. I’ll take one in exchange for a love
christened with portent, I gave it no unction – fresh as a fruit’s glaze
in spring, or the crunch of dew somewhere along Baguio in the morning,
intestinal roads frothing with excess of fog. Consider trees
in akimbo past your sweltering window – the panes in feverish heat,
what are you to do but splash water? Bathe. ***** Sully.
We have no inertia in this feetless adagio. Wind is sandpaper.
Pain is tactile. I am a ****** paving the way, crucified on no longitude-latitude.
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