(no subject)
The beaches of flesh calling names
Whispering, the silver spoons
And whale bones
Feet can still sleep, dystrophic
In braided prison beds
In braided dreams between two
Rotting on the beach,
And foam
It grew and grew until it permeated
Throughout all the bruises
Of soft fruits. The smell
Salt coming through the windows
Whispering, the silver spoons
And whale bones
Feet can still sleep, dystrophic
In braided prison beds
In braided dreams between two
Rotting on the beach,
And foam
It grew and grew until it permeated
Throughout all the bruises
Of soft fruits. The smell
Salt coming through the windows