line 2

the digital foliage escapes a vacum from the rising debris. in times like these it's always best to dial 5 syllables into the beat. harps lay naked::songs sucking cement from the centre of churches:: those listening form commandments into pyramids like cheerleaders ::the logos are themselves under the fax machine, made whole by the echo that follows the immortal distance::i closely followed the sentence home, it told me no more than a rapist would under the blur, this as a technique for withdrawing information is::at this point all else follows: the black hole reflects street lights, the white hole induces pentagrams. all the while::the city of x is bombed blue::& telepathy stretched across nipples through time::really the floor. more of the blue like the bombs::this her fingers could condemn, a cloud named Sarah, tied to the electronic grid: child she swore she could save the storm minus the glitches. merely bugs her to know of flesh gone unheard//her face was killed against the wishes of the masking tape and they said Jesus was on line 4. I'm sorry he'll have to wait:: the penetrating number of u-turns served it's purpose into sequential offerings to liminal excavations literally betraying the vast array who saw the escape pod fall west of the crash: the pilot bound to die in shock, unless his training was written on his palm::

i am mauled by zero gravity::hold war on line 2: wash my hands when the tempo switches sworn against the pendulum bouts of sickness enter more at a loss. i fold a sheet of sandpaper immediately, twisting the creature fitting in my pocket, safety from the edge: i surplus: the next sort of binary code to look at me at the brink of animals en-caged, because i hear the machine breathing and cannot feign distance. afraid to tear calligraphy on napkins let alone use them. its my nature to turn against my name. i am, sound drowning in reverse again.