Silver Legs of Understanding

Eyelids that intercourse ten years of glass, songs of dripping sleep to neutralize lonely afternoons, their 19th century very nearly paradoxical, a cinema of claws trying in vain to conceal what is black for the first time. Wet, undulating piles of grass, its random melancholy mirrored in the sharpest of its cells. The metropolis sees nothing and blithely continues procreating with its own tongue.


Iam the minotaur, the minotaur is me, an array of pulsating beats for long, muscular legs, her vague stare discarded by passing chemicals. The mystery shatters in the doorway to newer, more fragrant hieroglyphs, clouds of belief, the solidity of bodies becoming microtonal.


This meal of hooves is enough to make thin veneers even thinner. She is starless, only visiting the violin's spirit, one tender sun for the ribcage to conspiracy, the sheer Arabic triangle dragging every syllogism down with it. Midnight's cigarette is better before you are encoded, an equation of insects tempted to pretend your lips are more volatile than they really are, someone else's spaceship waiting just outside the window's purplest origin.


Her dark, lustrous hair is a novel, forgotten artillery guitars that are positively Vedic, barely audible cries as more and more opium in the blue of the courtyard. The repetition I once thought I was, mountains swirl and release the serpents, who, drunk on neurons that never existed, begin mixing bluejeaned thighs with the poetry that resides in the zero.


The agency of May '68 is reawakened by the stairway of teeth, circles that become aroused at the sight of antlers swaying beneath the moon....