Tuche & Automaton

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Quiet Cells, Priority Tresses

poised upon tired old metaphors
alluding to the cruelty inherent in
your every kiss dilated, reaching for
those blue-eyed cells. sweat lamps
ask for time out of breath
silver with fear, conflating tassels
with talking drum patterns scorched into
the very heat of night. two names
working feverishly to repair the
pet labia absorbed in the irate
moods of a quiet sea this evening.
with sudden bursts of ennui to sop at
news of a torrid affair unafraid
to become diffuse and splash
tears of joy powered by numinous
wings of silk, frayed but alive
with the black gaze of a scorpion
not even fit to travel alone
in public without love bloodying
willing mouths to moth sadness at
evolution stripping the sun of
charred, broken designs that echo
with the supreme elegance of your own
dark magic.

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