Sunday, April 17, 2011


Do you still get to scream?
Not very often, but only if I confiscate the photographs. Nobody can touch the hair. The birds will still sing, the blood will still be confined, but not for long. It will split its infinities and drown the fish.

The smoke diffuses. I feel nothing. Anhedonia, Anhedonia, I'm in love with a swirl called Anhedonia.


Bridges fail soon before the despair of rising is foundered. It is hot in Antarctica, and the penguins are molting from the radiation. The Dog-tongued flower spins and blooms, the aurora falls like melting flare wax. All is quiet in my septum.


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