I loved like a fountain
and it left me with nothing
except memories of walking
through Washington Square
And I love some words because they sound of an incise, a grave split where the blood first refuses to pool. Slowly trickling the evening news sludges forward in repetition ad nausea, just another ten seconds of the same ten seconds of the consciousness and dire manic storm. Whereas in the forbidding light I ease the sacred joy of my womb, the fleece of the gradient day sucks and clucks and draws of the mireing imitation of life.
Heart beats pause in the puddle-jumping Coriolis. Two fingers and a deeply darkly bitter. All this staunch for an unfoetered stench that bleeds in depth of blue and yellow-black. Why am I confederate? Hunting tails that sly back in counter-intuition, sleigh-back beds dreaming of a form more noise than jaundice. The folding dawn draping in feline respite over a world much too small for its infinite disk.
If I had cab fare I'd carve out the insistence of this biology, ride the brakes until the lines squeal with sand and invertebrate skin. Maybe I'll passenger to a leitmotif in raven-and-auburn-bent bones or slim satellite fingers vegetating gothically for the shift. How spires the inspiration gasping minarettereal as lungfish corpsing along the midden drift, go awed and in-able to content, to satiate the satyrical hoof we beat. Each thrum a pulse push of acceleration, I wait for the cropped insurrection where the pavement nods in recognition of the street and the street bows to the land, and the sky blazes on as aeon-ic, a filament bound by thighs, settled between the conjointed etherea of templed masses. I go.