I do the write-y thing. |
Lost connection,
Grey flesh, concrete...
He says his thoughts are tangled like
Thorns...
This day, Winter sat upon the land,
Its bloodless knife sitting in its open hand...
He steps from the icy grip of Winter and into
the cool waters of Spring...
Machine of Circumstance
who sees and who bleeds...
These are the chains they put around me,
I long to run wild...
The driving hallucinatory fields,
Wheat, sun, arching sweating skies...
Seal with silk,
Stitch-up from toolbox parts, demiurgo straights...
Bare your teeth and throw the heart away
Little sounds making like drops, you plummeted...
I am many-fanged
I capture my moods in glasses...