Hearing is an episode of cleft
I do not loiter in the field of fragmented hound.
Draw from it the mourning metaphor of its own identity.
All femininities become legless horses.
It was the day of the tamarin.
We open the halves of a epiphany and the killing of noises promises into the noble sea.
It was the sunrise of the pheasant.
Behind the blood colored embarrassment of the pamphlet.
For a day, maybe twenty-seven, I rested under a ocean wave
at a bus stop, waiting for the goddess to be in.
A brimstone and wayside laminated sign is pitied in the modern office.
Sunburst orange lava to my mechanical planetarium!
Electrify me and let my substance hear.
Like the rotten clay of juices re-covered and then connected in the university.
The affluent pasture gave it decency.
What funny things does the mouse contain?
How little we rejoice and how much it stands the phenomena of this universe.
Return to the homeland of the dews.
Like putrid tryst, films our new femininity, our perfect bell line segments.
It was a furious business of corpse and pigeon holes.
Fewer and fewer bristle about another mode of respect.
Fractious saliva and dead oblivions.
From @nowreadthis2