The buttery eye of a butterfly caught my sigh slipping shy to the windowsill where your lips spill insomnia powering watermills undefeated by the modern Don Quixotes. My muse breathes in higher frequency... I'm telling her to stop... Stop. My thoughts don't rely on my lungs anymore for they have organs of their own... as well as separate agendas. They paint you psychedelicate, frail and yet invincible. Murderously vulnerable. Violently tender. The hunted is the hunter. The femme fatale.

Blood purple and trunked they raise to my ruby mouth socks
      liquid cooling stone

      cogs turning wheels turning cogs turning wheels
      cancer lifts to transcendence

      shimmering rainbows collide into metallic dust
      burnt orange flowers and blossom

      blood boxes box other blood boxes so the blood boxes can't spray life
      the green droplets drooped once to many on there little watermills

      Tori stop being Tori once nothing can pass through there centers
      Ash is not a torus

      righteous containers contain the righteous contemplating the unrighteous
      star dust encases star dust

      Sherbet and laughter, pipes enjoying other pipes smoke
      Stupid People