White out. Cold noticing only loathe. Drift sinister insinuations. A narrow border; white panels plead black.
Camera flash guards all our senses. Leaves off sunlight: decomposition. I keep forgetting to breathe. In this way syncopation conjures stoic tones.
Threshold of chest resents consistent flinching. Pressed like an ocean, a mast in distress. Sometimes you have to choose between fingers and lips. An impenetrable lushness.
Travel between waking and torn layers of transparency. Everything is different now.
I have a few observations. The muscles of my shoulder push harder against the exhausted traveler. I write because I am unable to unbutton your condescension. We laugh at these little mysteries, a question mark, an aftermath, the swell of snow baiting nostalgia.
Accelerate fire, board stories punctuating the subject. You are down between my thighs gobbling silence. Body: the doorstep before leaving. I find myself unable to ask for what I really want.
Ironic detachment, a sudden lack of music your innards throb. The bed moves closer toward the door each night like an old boat. Map: because we kiss we sink into stained sheets. The sides of my mouth taste of watermelon.
Mouth smeared gesture surrounding flesh. The movement is nothing if not practical.
Make yourself a nice cup of tea. Eat shredded wheat, teeming backstreets of beaten pillows. Your bathrobe is an imaginative composition of cleavage and simplicity. The mountain and the sea, the dry leaves, choke your cherry.
A night detached from necessity is indicative of great pianos with enormous soul. There is no twist. How easy to slip your nightgown over penetrated spaces, to hold in hand, obscenely drunk, the classical mistake. You will not be mistaken.
The movie, the passion plays, darkness and darkness, pulling at inflated songs. I have done nothing with the first person though to gauge major sentimental faults. There is no end to them. Shutter: mountains and the sea.
Unless it be that marriage smiles grimly upon he who has kissed a leaf. Unbound—complete, dashes of hot rain play your body.
Desperate rejoinders flitting tongue turned slowly. All I said is I wrapped myself around you. Now I have come to a different condition. In the most practical frame crude symbolism associates certain textures with petals contending rough moss.
I saw a girl with one hand feigning masturbation sucking her fingers. This adamant schism presupposes the wet road. Now, in the imagination, I am plagiarizing you. At the same time to detach from poetry is to elucidate neither hanging nor pushing.
Nothing would be left but suicide. The broken brain chewed with excrement. Arithmetic hinged on literature. Meanwhile the cripple still jostles her outline: quickens.
Rhyme and meter live under threat. The back handspring is side-splitting geometry.
The formality of boredom sifts four letter words through fits of chipped teeth. Fiction is a practice of witnesses. Such work picks the skull empty. Meanwhile, with hands in pockets, rolling your savage eyeballs passed directly into the moment.
Everything: windows, chairs, I myself seek to enter a suburban wife. There is no twist, no varnished floor, and no phenomenal light. Trees grow old. The beast contemplates self-destruction.
I myself seek to enter from one spot to point out the screeching finale. Now I have armed a more dissident condition. Everything that I have done in the past is venomous. Smile grimly.
There is work to be done: hatched atom. I run my hand over you and you suck away.
