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.