Dry Ice Mines
I got beat over a 3 million year old chair leg.
Who dares to ad life to the spoiled, soiled hair I slept on for the
decade. I lay in a bed of mud, moss and hatched eggs with nothing but remains remaining. Partially suffocated.
She, bad Mother of water, gave birth 200 times while I was gone, supposedly her mind was so empregnated by wisdom, it beget the poisinous belly of an overcharged discovery, now still slipping from her orphus' in screams. Now still leaking into the dead hills, her badlands exposed to shock and even rain drops from the bleeding clouds. She is so hot with this fluid, now all to do is isolate her womb in the ice mines.
Birth is the eventuality of death.
She ripped a piece of the future out and gripped to it tightly in her palm, until it splattered an oily discharge, disintergrated with touch.
You have no right to know things beneath what lives.
Living is a present presence, an all over layering of clothing for our skull and its contents.
We feed off the immence world carved by seeds taking root to the core. Feed me the petals from the oliander.
The universe, propelled by an orchid's blossom, her lips as close to the flower, moisetning with desire. Drying up the light around you, she descends.
Fushia is the glaze for a nightmare. Dreaming now of groaning plasma clocks, shining, on the invisible walls of skin, a body emptied from inside-outside.
Sometimes they pass in a moment, blinking unawares. Bypass. Collect the fast paced discomfort from what you have missed. In a second, there lost. In a gradual sentence, what emerges from your thoughts is not because you said it, it is sound hitting the bodies around. Pronouncing: A liquid image floating in the air from mouth, to lungs, to persons ears breifly living on the atmosphere. It survives for the eternity of years, fermenting. A statement never lost, passes you by and all illuminates under the pink glare of moon. So many moons pestering the surfaces above us. Leave the ocean as a mirror for the calling choir of the skies in the dark. Unheard of time. Time is not making any sound. Passing the bench sitting on the man in earth, with a face like a sapling. Brave, as a tree in windstorm. This ice mine has heard the lambs squeal at first breath. This could send the mountains down again, and let the waters rise in a boil. Have u heard that ice and fire wrestle each other in the humid rainforest where we first decided to practice magic. The ice mines have no core, and no more room than our heads to fit a question in. My planet is scalding, and likewise a frigid healing ground for the soiled, spoiled vision of a mother lost to the ice mine. Her pain seals the atmosphere and lets us drown, lets us sense impossible leaping negatives on my mind boiling fast in the developing fluids now turning to ice. Bare to the naked eye-skin spiting hot iron. Tears turn into blade.
Who dares to ad life to the spoiled, soiled hair I slept on for the
decade. I lay in a bed of mud, moss and hatched eggs with nothing but remains remaining. Partially suffocated.
She, bad Mother of water, gave birth 200 times while I was gone, supposedly her mind was so empregnated by wisdom, it beget the poisinous belly of an overcharged discovery, now still slipping from her orphus' in screams. Now still leaking into the dead hills, her badlands exposed to shock and even rain drops from the bleeding clouds. She is so hot with this fluid, now all to do is isolate her womb in the ice mines.
Birth is the eventuality of death.
She ripped a piece of the future out and gripped to it tightly in her palm, until it splattered an oily discharge, disintergrated with touch.
You have no right to know things beneath what lives.
Living is a present presence, an all over layering of clothing for our skull and its contents.
We feed off the immence world carved by seeds taking root to the core. Feed me the petals from the oliander.
The universe, propelled by an orchid's blossom, her lips as close to the flower, moisetning with desire. Drying up the light around you, she descends.
Fushia is the glaze for a nightmare. Dreaming now of groaning plasma clocks, shining, on the invisible walls of skin, a body emptied from inside-outside.
Sometimes they pass in a moment, blinking unawares. Bypass. Collect the fast paced discomfort from what you have missed. In a second, there lost. In a gradual sentence, what emerges from your thoughts is not because you said it, it is sound hitting the bodies around. Pronouncing: A liquid image floating in the air from mouth, to lungs, to persons ears breifly living on the atmosphere. It survives for the eternity of years, fermenting. A statement never lost, passes you by and all illuminates under the pink glare of moon. So many moons pestering the surfaces above us. Leave the ocean as a mirror for the calling choir of the skies in the dark. Unheard of time. Time is not making any sound. Passing the bench sitting on the man in earth, with a face like a sapling. Brave, as a tree in windstorm. This ice mine has heard the lambs squeal at first breath. This could send the mountains down again, and let the waters rise in a boil. Have u heard that ice and fire wrestle each other in the humid rainforest where we first decided to practice magic. The ice mines have no core, and no more room than our heads to fit a question in. My planet is scalding, and likewise a frigid healing ground for the soiled, spoiled vision of a mother lost to the ice mine. Her pain seals the atmosphere and lets us drown, lets us sense impossible leaping negatives on my mind boiling fast in the developing fluids now turning to ice. Bare to the naked eye-skin spiting hot iron. Tears turn into blade.