Dadagram #21

Injured pools butterfly thought and are therefore magic. The angst of angels, long let us bleed this theatre in my throat. Sovereignty's wrinkled factory without singing murder or the science of her vulva's temple as a string of feathers. Frozen, scaly feet lead to the nowhere of silent perfection, so bring me your jaded heart, the exhumed circle of it screaming flag sounds. Duality splits a scorpion's tail into implosion pectorals, but I never leave a trail of forgotten lips. Four bloodied in her eyes until one doubt hoards creation. Undiluted hearts to fray the edge's cascade, our collective guru for a proud breast tangential in its meaning. Elapsed senses with gold sweating the crime-scene's folded bridge and storming what is true. Bones nova elaborate clouds grinning their lust, scrambled sighs while twelve remains an intuition that aches like a secret, shamanic doorway. Water is lost where coins stare at spread legs, battering our sonata's divine throb. Unsolved, free of the trees we were in erosion and the smile behind memory, fugues slip past, dying with acquiescence. Rays last seen following myself into exhaled smoke, our fifth month in glorious hair. Clear, razor-like reasons to cheer for the cultivated illusions courageous enough to break space, asymmetrical flights that embrace the rhythm in strange ideas, the tuned algebras in the back pockets of our skin.