An Octave Sold To The Sun

Your sonata is curved, I see

To cerebral a gashed loop's optic city,
infinite and raining women

Our nation is a psychic attack

Eyes that bruise skin now molecules dreaming sunlight,
addicted slabs of rendered, smiling drip


Pornography holds industrial noise hostage in your crowded face's need to paint war on her pink spine


Burn some air and watch me cum because every day can be a webpage, the stuff of starlings, even miasmic. Deranged hips of paranoia have wings on this planet, don't worry when it syntaxes a soiled tourniquet. Cellular times a cigarette, messy, atmospheric without knowing what any of it is singing. Your flawed dress is the ass of logic, a crisp hydrogen frontier.