Apr 25, 2009 09:19
August in marigold
you drove the lamplight
peeking drowned almonds pure the chrysanthemum
chasing needles
dear lavender, your pales retract
where is the hypertext in this organized melancholy? It is lit underneath with furs and furs, a barrage for yes, men feel the persistence of chasing flies in their totalitarian mirrors. It is non-relational, like powder forest. A muse and a moss-laden lake in two tones of fire, making up to art for faking a deer through a shortcut.
Proper sounding vibrations leak their chances necessitating barbarous gears. The owl sleeps in a fancy of mice and farmers, and a golden carriage cries throwing thorns outside the windows meaningfully in starts and stops of our videos. The thorns are caught in little puddles of silk.
There are sweaters and sweaters for warming ink. Pillars and face-masks for canceled appointments. And a madrigal in two parts, a burning in the tree, the window forced open in a gasp of cerulean satin.
Oh poison
how involved you are
with kidnapping choices
pincer-like and fat.