A Prolonged Technics...

a prolonged technics that just fails to supernova: closer to the eye's map of the present heave, pillboxed in collusion and covered in somewhere, reification looks calmly out upon streets lined with rows of damp shufflings across time's mangy drip. used condoms howl at intentions concealed in secular clumps of neuron ambrosia disguised as wombs tweaking the end. ideology, broken into by the lower ray of diction, rotting alone outside the window's humming velocity. it wants to be an illogical pulse, rather than a wheel of synaptical poverty. fuel leaks into translucence, a circus of thoughts, both terribly vulgar and plastering its own skin with winter's easy cognition, the face of music.