The Origin of N and R

Iam here, wearing clouds that kiss, where it's easy to imagine little girls with moths for legs, new reptilian snowfalls, fingers dirty with synapse as a retreat into obscure arguments with bemused saxophones. Palaces lost on the continent of silver butterflies, an aversion to shoulders that dance them blues like they mean them, aircraft that managed to hide from the authorities for over a thousand years. Yellow latencies, everything's favourite UFO, tanned women carry magnificent twilight far beyond fascination, flasks of red wine uncoiling their tongues in tribute to the soft cathedrals of hair, thick and pre-Socratic. A revelation, jewelled swords, whipped by the crystal afternoon to the point of lunacy, awaken suddenly in the future, only to find themselves commodified by the singularity's brilliant sky. This symbol for melting eyes and rivers of nihilism barely remembers which platinum loop goes where in the alphabet of the night. Some semblance of conspiracy, its icy crags laughing maniacally at the wooden tables being stripped naked to the waist, forms one immense word, a sigh that captains invading Martian fleets. There, in the pale torrent, opium dreams transform dolphin-headed necessity, an endless line of black waxen claws, pangs of Siam despite believing in cubism. The bone of days will waltz in blithely, eat the heart of the diamond and still be ironically arcane, metaphoric footprints tested directly by the star spangled banner, phallic nomadologies of mercy and light. Inexorably, islands the colour of tired voices return to the dark tower and resume their former lives as silhouettes trembling in blind throats.