17.5.09

Bells To Tautology Only Singing Back

Never just to be the scent of her, weird secrets not a lie to islands here and now, cardinal shadows, a cliff's speaking of time.

Where are my taut apples parched with cordite around the bend?


Humbled in coming to the realization, musket in hand, the horses sang in a box. Bandits, buffoons drowned me, no dream-maiden to dissolve.

Black twists of goathead film in your earth. Boombox hurricane covenants with moon
umbrellas because they know they'll stick to the doors of the mausoleum.
Mysterious skeletal pigments,
I drag my reluctant book upside down,
trees with your fetus that insanity is the only
reasonable option in my mouth.

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