6 Mar 2008

Hasten a War

Hidden within the decimals of the night, we strike a war. As eyes linger on fixated in despair erogenous whispers escape me, like leviathan attacks the ocean floor. In humiliation we carve a retreat. Laid a fountain of gold constructed in clear wisps of an incredulous hammer. Bound by glory, hearts stain the background, surrounded in discrete harbors formed from orders from black assassins. You reflect myria, my hysteria enclosed for distinct fractions of time remaining. Am I Damned, doomed or deemed to return by before the whereabouts of the dawn are disclosed. My ghost gentle will wrap a song into your torn whole. You will appear closed before the light, yet your transition will wan longer in the heights sent from sweet emotions. I am devised from thorns, my name is as a stolen fruit belonging to the night, many serpents enter and hasten my image. Your heart embedded in my flesh like shrapnel from an impending war as clairvoyance. Calibrated data sings like harps that heat the ionosphere before my eyes, an invasion sounds the alarm that tempts the immune system to perfection. I long to embrace G. My rituals tie me to zodiac storms clouded, refusing to combine the meaning in the rhythm of sacrifice, played amongst virgins in stone. I comb the meridian fumbling cross and crown and drowning in the voices of electro magnetic pulsations. Increased indigo extradites the date, I’m written in a forest, willing compounds to unlock and enter the nodes. The known distance will not allow the temperature to course slowly, a tendency that owes too much to tomorrow. The bastard promise. The distilled dream. Scorched envelopes rope from freedom into sequestered soundtracks, you would see my dance calibrated star-gate quests crushed. Loan me your blood type, I’ll run into numbers that resemble an entourage, revolutions timed against themselves out doing the dj. Counterclockwise cloaks, wisdom approached the closed window complementing horizons before the funk. My angle insinuates elastic, my art, mirrors twisted amongst the trigger as if part of the plan. Those would be ritual sacrifices timed to perfection, those starving macrobes revolved the doors tempting the reverse matter down to the logo on you genes. No logical formation could eclipse the echelon, harnessed to the t, like Sagittarius aimed to the centre of the galaxy.


Robert said...

Jaie, i tried to tell you on myspace, but it is being myspace

this is fantabulous

and im versioning it

Anonymous said...

absolutely spanked my brains_
Thanks Jaie!

Jaie said...

very cool you guys.