The Hell of Aesthetics

It's hard, heavy, the beloved in my stomach, this spiral conch
dripping with the familiar tumult. Our bodies to sing meat, bone, fluid tendrils.
Our carpet lost in the cosmos like mating animals behind our science,
leading us into young mouths and eyelids.

To live is to pillar apart, to die is to trill the fountain,
that promise of density.

And sometimes the second paradigm actually works.

Dark locks biting down hard on my ribs, divining every convulsion not peeled.

Another euphoria, another squeak from ourselves.

It's too late. This smashed syntax at its most vulnerable squeezes a phalanx of impossible rythms from the sky. Brilliant talismans between legs televised for a panacea, erased there on ten hours of solvents, emancipated by numb beauty, it's all too real for either of us. The flash ranging from the indelible to the cruel, unfair and malicious,

Dada still spews meteors as the orange abstract
laughs its strange laughter.

Thanks to Surrealist Gesture for allowing me to cross-text some of his stunning work!