Canticles Dressed In Black
Sub-zero effigy moaning, a prolonged cadence dead before it hit the floor.


Injunctions burn at the stake, our threshold drones on and on,
baffling twists and spins amongst what it would mean to be eternally smooth and blue. My hands love stroking curves known by their own spurious tangle, envious of the bruised meanderings as applied to my lost context.

Widely, quickly dissipating ghostly swirls, there were no prophets to teach us the necessary arcana. Various ideologies smoked in style for the sake of passion, glorious passion, they conspired to the secret, sullen legacy every time.




...in the fish's objection...
Brightness falling over what we could not afford to flesh, tethered spaces and myriad gills of a shining third, molten without losing precious time. A morning advocate of keen-minded anarchy, productions of oak tired of waiting for us to scavenge lungs and itinerant jawbones from a million unhappy faces.

Straddled by the golden card of beauty, a five dropped, encrypted in its alluvial phase, both possible and impossible at the same time


We are lava that can't be erased in a vial

I imagine a type of freedom beyond the waning lights, pretty faces pointed at in stark terror by emaciated fingers, colourless metaphors for astrology. It lounges amongst wisps of hair that manage to bury a mountain of laughter under the moon's illustrated sequel, every fibre alive in the passing linearity. Once sacred, now separate and sober as broken glass, the knees of heredity have jaundiced twice this evening, monotony and the lunar melding with the clear applause usually reserved for a new symphony, one that just stares blankly into the sun's blinding glare without ever blinking.

"They're certainly more beautiful than ours..."