1. I've finished weeping the sun and climbing the stairs to a finger immersed in the blue of the city. I can feel my skin stretching over yours again. Music, pure ambrosia to those currents of mine which knowingly, willingly, choose to smother what is golden in the distance between trees. I've a sudden need to flap my leather wings with all the clarity of war on meat-hooked lips, psychological, astrological. And very much a windmill. It begins in the mirror, in the molten wonder of hedonists refused entry to a timeless world.
Cherubim with red hands...
2. They drool a strange kind of thunder, hiss pharoahs in order to persist in their young, particularly fragrant, delirium. Bones of truth without being a single syllable at sunset, memories like purrung from someone's frantic antennae. "Reality is invented by the incestuous," (a favorite maxim of mine) scrawled on the foreheads of habit, riding the bus alongside the many corridors of summer, what survived to contemplate murmuring geometries, the sneer of jazz. I've tapped out thick, foolish beginnings to chaos for gasoline, sold the laughter depicted by thieves beneath angry bridges. But everybody still comes to me for their 3 o'clocks, what I'll do to leave traces of genitalia on pillows wet like trembling strangers I met in slow motion.
Everywhere is hanging in a cave.
3. You are very Christ-like when my veins are thin, quiet, a neutrality nobody cares to notice. Or it doesn't matter to them in the least when my shadow casts off its democratic veneer. I was structured as a series of prefaces to dusty, secret backrooms, waves of light drunk with the power of perfectly-tailored suits and oil-slick ennui. The sorcery, nervous, discordant, wants to analyze the way you slip in and out of my television, leaving me to stare at worn, decrepit pictures of Frida Kahlo and wish I wasn't such a radio for erasures on the cusp of turning into sandy, warm, thighs.
4. I'm determined to be a mysterious rhythm in curves of breath stuck to the cold, hard, facts, little daydreams glimpsed quickly through a freshly-polished bakery window, where the tables are deeply in lust with pools of spilt coffee that drip lasciviously over their edges. Saxophones could grow in that loneliness. It's almost impossible to drive through the screams that persist in my motionless, black hair, Tokyos of young women sent by a notion to paint my empty bottles of rum. They left their individual testimonials scattered on throats bleeding the sorrow of every minute detail, despite the eyelids of earth and air.