Monday 0.3

Your diminishing lingers on in this terrible moment, eyeless perversity, diamonds and flame. Silver is a revolution in amnesia's scorched wind, blithe twists like women who purr a paraphrased skull. The wink deep into our shared lunar light opens another hole into the knotted vector, and all I can manage in response is to imagine another purple alloy of blonde hair and dark semen. At night I will dream crucified dreams with skeletons dribbling and drooling secert mirrors of rigour in strict binary sequences.

Filthy pipes clamber to meet us at the wisp of a language connected to brown husks of earth and its every question. Cyberia frozen, a foamy birth of heliotropes, lips sailing in ecstasy. Iam everything's favourite ritual again, the fifteenth silence, the hysteria of frangrances sold in distress. 4am kisses the spurt of semantics growing rapidly between our fingers, and they cooperate easily, these deliriums beneath vagina rinses. The sky crackles, the concrete sings a vile hymn and tries to simultaneously cradle your rioting breasts in its engorged madness as my ideal world wrestles with red beams draping this new, unexpected sound.