I wish I could stop thinking
you are the epitome, the albatross
it's as bare a clay left to dry
crack and red and sculptures of rock depicts a sacred icon
with no name.
— gladiator for the palatial frequence
My head aching for the overflowing crystal scales
and modify the intense orange friction riding in the throat
— cataract, heart disease in armor
and murder with the nitric fright of your thoughts
the contemporary fusion of
acrylic magenta and
— your kid gloves fill with glitter
I wish you a coy tea party
an infliction of subtle torture through prattle bubbling out of black tea
and I know how you would sit and tremble, all of you
lost in your own crawfish grip on self control
— it's cloying and you hate it
can I cry to a Baroque violin?
not at all?
I croon partially out of
a fascination for
kites in Wonderland.