квантовая порнография
It's not opening, not happenning, nothing's in place. I hate the place, I hate it opening, hate it happening,
i need a freezer and a pyre wherever i'm trying to stand straight
and a pulsating cassock to keep all that excessive self from leaking.
Which is pointless - white holes cannot shut,
can possibly exist, and that's more than you can ask for.
That hilariousness o' dragging people out of themselves
is never worth it.
But nice mining ya.
If i was ALICE and you were ATLAS, we probably wouldn't meet,
still being hopelessly drawn to still no man's land.
If i was Alice and you were a photon, i wouldn't forward you, cue the experiment failure.
When the original data goes missing, it's called success, you know.
The experiment did not fail.
It's been perfectly rough.
We are painting a church tonight, the birds are up all night,
maybe the things want to be painted too and are getting attention,
why limit unnatural desires to humans
with the whole planet experiencing this perversity don't they have the bodies to percept.
They'll surely die from granting. So ain't we kind, ain't we -
they may want more than life, and who is like unto you, my lilith pony,
who is able to make gifts of that sort.
Noone asked us to paint the church, 'course.
I could believe it wants to be painted. Never stated otherwise.
Canvas's not an obstacle, anyway, much we love to waste good things.
Murrey, azure, amberly, the tholobate of the freaking church is so clear whatever the colours are.
The spectre is white and the colour medley is black, that's the essence,
Or shouldn't be resulting,
i shouldn't be speaking of this to the roof.
I lack primal fear, i have this other one, when you're taking me to the roofs, though, not so plainly explained - I'm hallucinating of falling everywhere
well, I believe it to be kinda payment for fun i self have as a hallucination.
And you are beautifully enraged when pulling me out of it if i stare too long.
Quiet, calm execution
of the promised unpurposed pattern. The window's not stained, it's just repainted that way.
Worked on upside-down.
When you lay your sinewy hand on the sun stuffed in your heart, the back of it is still cold,
and your tongue secretes crystal wine,
unfazed, unmoved, witty, greatly conscious
i call that a miracle,
i testify, declare, divine, vow and fever.
I am a fragile shard, i break just by watching you sleep, a little jealous
of the ghosts having you writhing and moaning there,
but chiefly just suffocated by awe.
Waking to the loud rain patter on your side,
actually, it never rains here,
only to let the church face the day white.
Of Or.
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