Unheard Molecules

your skin signals Andromeda to edges of water that are never enough
to time our alienation as it crackles in the sky.

wet and stiff voltage uniting what craves.

so nice to finally thunder and to attune our mutual disgust with the desert on my back. grace leaves a third to nothingness seen crowned a halo matrix, quivering, vague whites what is left of the smell of hours. deep polarities gasp, form blue, gaseous mournings in arcana. lucid hauls, rubber and velocity performed as a divine concerto by the hallucinated gates to the city.

the dark knight drops to his knees,
plants his lips with dramatic aplomb on the mirror promised to you
through this shred of ambiguity sung at great feasts.

eight paragraphs the new dilemma,
allows us to forget the one you never curl,
a ghost flung from lucidity.


Arrowed, Two Fingers In the Corner of My Mouth

smoke drifts from the spine of God, and I writhe in its sweet chant.

call it hubris, or call it love, it certainly isn't a pearl on the tongue. we're all a shake away from the hood of a police-car, the dance-floor exhausted by precision, attenuated by green greed. rational explanation's third eye firmly fixed on the twenty of our oval disease. it tingles a cyclops, I know that sounds like a speared vivisection, torn tires entering what we fail to imagine.

the social intersection where many extant versions of the story collide with the morning cold and blithely continue speaking the nomadic dialect of your reddest pills. some of the best gangrene allowed somewhere's not-so-clinical schizophrenia to charm the snakes from our pockets, mutated into neon vines of government before finally being arrested climbing the walls between love and death's hardest midnights.

biology born on the whore of streets, second-hand and digital, something we couldn't fully remember. blue-handed arson is an embarrassment to genome where we are in jail snatches of sorry. I'm a stolen key to crush thirty drones of sand, a full moon still looking for somebody to roll into a cigarette. rumours need their medication, too, after all, statues that kiss each other deeply as art morphs into agency.



for Lazare