Yesteday wrapping conceit around your ankles. Sacral, perhaps embedded in animated holes of did not. Your singular pile of spiked flesh chastened as a hook mysteriously drifting across voided machine terrain. Yellow fans a dazzling smile with only fifteen seconds remaining in the chalice.

A gateway to another astronaut kiss, lonely because enough is never enough. Dancing to never wear the feather of disease again. Bid farewell to the love of silver rooted in representation, a dozen roses focused on the speed of light. Triumph in desecration. It was suddenly easy to rate the larval vogue, the steely grip sullying your bloodied crevice. Wounded wings...

Empty, burning allies at a cross of wrinkled onyx, psychic energies flown to drivel. A beautiful play at nothing. Fighting another location doomed to handle flaccid, exposed ribs until the dawn of the last day ingesting the best this life had to offer twice. Turning too harshly, with rogue powers destined to attempt choke-holds on blithe sentiment, inspired by a leavening curl anywhere, anytime.

When the gulf between flatness and dry resonances sense every lazy eye screaming to fly by voices automatic why at the good breathing in and out in filial spurts, a frozen dial constructed together,

a noble loft, away with the over

projecting tender architectures onto you

to unite right and wrong,

feral tendrils of aesthetics

sipping ecstatic wine.


peyoetryhut.blogspot.com