Everything Should Be Spelled Backwards

a 75 paradise disconnect in marble dust, our whirling bodies cavorting with the atomic bomb. it is strange and cold, a heretic's love. dirt, however a rough, strong hand, surreal with the crashing day, brimless after a dream realizes its own clavicle ululating. mercurial, more bloodthirsty to wander, myriad shadows radiant with the eclipse in her voice. metal and asbestos wash tall, white hate from swelterings out of nothing, the orb of blue flesh suddenly hard to penetrate with the old alchemies. war is sewn into torsos of fun's cerebral youth. terror floating from the lights of a surprised feel around egos lifted beyond beauty, endlessly ticking bright smudges of abstract cinema. legendary crimes or, inversely, paisley-coloured six inches of gut removal to laugh off the mind. sharpened oracles dilute the meaningless television to the affirmed razor world, red distortions in spite of love's water soaking every gesture between hideous and capsuled skin. cigarettes need slavery, cycled tongues rusty with derangement's prowling bones from the flaming palace. onyx vertebraes on lips married to silicone's seventh real fate, greased hair falling from the mantle. ancestral wings, the telepath's exposed throat limps in permutations because opium is its only rhythm. an army quills southeast hues to decimation, the gallery practicing stories of teeth, microphones record the hiss from lazy yawns ambushing ecstasy with machetes. the smell of madness is in everything's blonde hair.