Know the bilateral hot/cold assistance.
Pay tribute to your own hometown.
Do the unbound thing.
Stand under the purple murmur
on the eve of your gullet.
The candles imitate the
rolled to the flesh four to floor.
The same cracked dispenser
smoldered the symbol.
Minus the litmus,
why am I always the assassin of
your perfect mouth?
Bring an isotopic reward.
A marksman and masked man
each touch my hand
almost always saying “invisible”,
almost always pale and flexible.
Between fuzzy halos, boa constrictors
roost. A future in the past in the future.
He slipped down the escalator,
a somber tomb of balance shaded with red—
and red, they say, is the color of love—
Boy, we love love.
Pull the siren’s ripcord.
(they’ll all be home soon).
We’ll follow you, Pied Piper,
rusty jaws in the wake of the rupture.
Take me to your leader.
Thresh You: Count Eight
Your insensible birth: jet streams: the coagulation of dreams,
Misled into the gravy of Halloweens; honeycakes.
"Bring me land mines," you say.
"An immaculate spear. . . an anvil."
Discovering non-vernal activities: she was no longer writing
dissertations on the death of the circumference.
Your: insensitive: birth. There must be an aurora for you.
A lynx in
Later: your motorcross bike parked against a billboard in a field.