Your hands are warm and my body is wide
To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars
All it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart
Canned ham is an effigy of oneself spun a golden in delirial syrup grown frozen with dyscontent and the great green flow of barbie-patrol. Three tins of petrol tagged inflammable by the burning, the passion-made reminder of cortisone bleeds slipping off the printable margin. And I am just getting warm. No ire. No undiluted, caged frenzy for this corrupting kin; for we are two of a hoof born horned and lyred, haloed and pitch. So, let us eat paste in the wan fluorescent odor of Sundays and Winedays
and the flatter Pitadays, no yogurt.
This mesa-nic kitsch clique, oh plateau, so Colleen-ic with the collander head-bent-wear, streaming applesauce closed captions to the millions of fingerless, chided children go cloaking in fancy dress and apéritif-tied gowns grown over with ivy and pride.
What skill, what goring delight hissing through the vitreous humour they show, grandly sewn wit quilted in their monosyllabic skin. We are something like oedema ignoring the kindly ones in their rage, clammy and corpulent, distended with non-agony as raiment.
ascension is a condition of non-regret, an incapable escape from the turbid lumber, the quake and shock of violence. This is a subtle length, this apprised cut, a standard weight of fleshy excision, a vague vacuole of spiral design leading up, deeply-darkly in. You are catastrophe, cataclysm, disaster, a hooded breach of simplicity, craving for a half-hearted whim, an infinite desire, to feel, to fill, to come.
Pavement is the motion of anthropic erogeneity.