3 May 2008

Monday 0.5

Dry, brittle bones that cry out in pink. A rare photograph of philosophy's inner skull. The heavy thud around here. Lemons are fluent in the language of your blur. Black leather, the form your breathing takes beneath the collapsed tincture. Romance and postmodern hair that shatters barriers in the still silence of possibility. Mantras turn orange, type the history of history on the blaze between thick, rancid pages of red wine, then long for a poetics to jump up and suckle at their lactating breasts. Moisture renewed, chasing after politics with a critique that lunatics purple wherever napalm is sold.

Croissants of iron, a third attempt at ontology. Long pauses on the chromatic margins, some buttocks have them, others don't. Diverse locales of Marxism never quite explained how a fetish managed to press the green button, its unique cluster of alibis. Octaves of myopia. A symptom marks you as pure heroin reflected in the art and music created by cosmic cylinders of truth's suffering jungle. The feral drips, takes the exact time and slits its throat, just to experience the pleasure of lapping at its ebbing flow. The sound plasticene makes when it bounces off your hormones isn't nearly so invincible as once thought by the ceiling's curve of leg.

9 comments:

Randy Girard's Wasteland Chronicles said...

fantastic!

cocaine jesus said...

i like the structure of this one. the way it seems more disiplined with a set of paramneters that hold the words in harness but still allow them the freedom to create myths within their imagery.

Aaron Held said...

love this one, what took you so long :)

Robert said...

hey c'mon, i threw down THREE mammoth pieces last week...i had to recover :)

thanks all!

kek-w said...

"Croissants of iron": fabulous, Rob!

Lazare said...

always great :)

cocaine jesus said...

only three?

;)

Robert said...

getting on, you know CJ? :)

cocaine jesus said...

YOU is THE man!!