Both heads fell like
Eyes on a crack in the door
And Sodom, South Georgia
Slept on an acre of bones
It's called animosity. An indigestible toiling for nothing grating against the grit graining in the pearl. And like a silver vein it threads its way, chafing through my skin, an ecstasy exacting without momentum, a loop of inertia unerring, collapsing, failing. Fantastic. What choice have I in emptying this apex, draining the clipped words chamber by chamber sloshing on past the fibres while listening to the lulling thump--[gap] leaning cautery-wise to the empty vessels, somethings without meanings. Without.
There are only so many cords, you know, a specific number of boards applied across the door. Sixteen. Three nails each.
And what you can't tell me, Pygmalion already knew, that the bone white clay you're mottled of gave grace as an antithesis to cracked-stone angles, rough-hewn, strangled lines driven at the plating of my skin. Am I the discoverer or the discovered of these soft places, these sand castles wind-spun in dream? Have I carved out a singularity too splendid, a deeply blue bowing arched across some midatlantic conundrum you drummed out in defeat? Maybe everything I see is just some tortoiseshell composure tickling chimeric cells, issuing dys-enfranchisement in litter and pavement papers stuck to windscreens... a soft germanic ripple of queerly questioned inqueries and a flash of old 110 stock burning out the light stuck beneath a rubber-skidded blade.
How candid these laughs, caught up in the gropes of ego and non-egalite, rolled in paunchy billows of blouses and blood-red lips spinning woolen warmth from tanned-skin tents. And the cat is asleep at the register. He is one left of money sifting through the floor, all tale-wrapped prehensilities telling how kept in fur the coming court stands when sitting, not a care to count in the blaring gales galling the perfusion silting solemn prayers across Stephen's Green. Only four signs and Bowe's tavern lighting, inviting the vitrious nature of rapture to claim some sin, and a subtle twinkle of whisky and guinness growling round the tipping chair legs, rolling syllables to the curling tongue-sung songs of an august march 'long O'Connell.
What's in a dream, they say... what young and furtive fledgling finds fancy in the impossible, in the cupidity of arrows idling slung, in the harlequin jest of targets and teetering tall composite collosus, stone giants building granite violent, vices holding jewels like freedom to the ethereal breeze.
how now brown kittens.