The inexplicable part, he thought, was
that everything and everybody ignites.
Further elaboration of these
circumstances, such as the influence of “breath” and “death”
compress and then blow and crash and
bash
like the life creating fluid of a
caliper being withheld
until the inevitable byproduct of
“process” is eliminated.
The world is built on pain and its
foundations laid in agony
as symphonic mold is but a disgusting
glossy perfection of laconic slime.
I, a sleeping giant of velvet
made hideously visible by mortified
torsion
slice Noon and Paradise only to retreat
into never-ever-ending sickness.
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