One Invocation, Then Another

The destiny of the molten, this subway beneath what appears
to be a dagger because Iam crazy, a new physics, another silhouette,
genetic codes trying to crawl over the structural eros of concrete, glass and steel. Is this suicide too white, or does the mind really have the power to shatter that which cannot be forced into an hour?

My wiggling episteme rhymes with emote control, the sweating pores of angels legion with pulp thrillers quickly glimpsed through cute foreign inflections. The usual side effects include calluses that become cold with the emptiness of space, if not precisely both warm tongues at once. I know what the television means by my subconscious wearing immeasurable miles of violence and terror, reams of swanky leather boots plotting as national flags form an occasional word amidst all the cigarette smoke and magnificent, spinning breasts.

A proper invocation will not shrink with the passage of one technology into shrunken fingers. It's a coping mechanism backwood viruses share until they are as Freudian as soggy cigars and nanotechnology that can piss the new, lavender models of rich and poor. I remember the echo-chamber quality of the satellite's intrusion into my emaciated arm, the ghetto hurled at my face with real venom when, suddenly, every possibility sighs like flapping wings.

Only I can see how sunshine secretly aches.