is it too much of an onomatopoeic dissonance that this is synonymous to
regret dubbed as slouched nirvana. Across the bonfire, there’s volition
as glare, light as judgment. Why they call her
Luningning, I know not.
Take excess for jaunts and flesh, and pay no heed to illusions. The mirage
on the wall is but fire-dance on the bitten lip of true company.
heady static pierces pinecone. Soon the moon will sink like **** to **** Or felled star as tripled glaze of salted lip. Or the ****** of the butterfly.
Are we here to metamorphose these tiny susurrations into a commune?
Dank and stale as piss-laced pavement, the whole world now
spires in uneven strobes. The last song on the karaoke as memory. The knead
of temperamental air on the scalp. Take pork rind for bread, intemperance
as tribute. The night dons its silken robe and shows her pair: two moony eyes
piercing the noise.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
is it too much of an onomatopoeic dissonance that this is synonymous to
regret dubbed as slouched nirvana. Across the bonfire, there’s volition
as glare, light as judgment. Why they call her
Luningning, I know not.
Take excess for jaunts and flesh, and pay no heed to illusions. The mirage
on the wall is but fire-dance on the bitten lip of true company.
heady static pierces pinecone. Soon the moon will sink like **** to **** Or felled star as tripled glaze of salted lip. Or the ****** of the butterfly.
Are we here to metamorphose these tiny susurrations into a commune?
Dank and stale as piss-laced pavement, the whole world now
spires in uneven strobes. The last song on the karaoke as memory. The knead
of temperamental air on the scalp. Take pork rind for bread, intemperance
as tribute. The night dons its silken robe and shows her pair: two moony eyes
piercing the noise.
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