fit of the scope neo-miners of electric streams, storms of our dormitory, warm beams of smother, colliding with each other, K.O.’ed and collecting in vulgar troughs
Slashed at Noon by 10′ tape pollen box of chamomile. tiny tea sails of Darwinian wayfarers
pit of the grape botanical refugee. color-blind to the chlorophyll, to the bark. the color of my mind is maternal blue in the dark.
Saloon red furs loom harness feathers of a loon
pen o’ tha vape …ribbons made of sun…streak the skylight perfectly in line with the scars on my body
An arch eye is a key to the chastity of a mighty moon. I seek to silken Sednas comm-link center seamless. seasonal schematics of the small surface skimmer. Her technology has touched me awake to fragile guises.
I’m a chemist of personality traits. Bunson Burner Betty, ford Clinique
tie my hair back, puff on juicy jack ’twas a creeper cone. courtesy of the ‘sco. Mina birds of the background drop symphonics that play along to a woodblock knock of another bird pecking palm frond lattices. tramples over silent song of a comet. ad infinitum rise do falsetto frequencies, oscillator dog whistles of the cosmos
Quite a quandary we’ve found ourselves in. O’ if everything was transparent. No thing can ever be exactly what it seems but an enigmatic Matryoshka dressed in cold iron questions. What lies beyond the epoxy? How does one nurse the subtle nature of a soft ground zero? What is Mk IV? we’ve been collecting pieces for what looks to be a network of training temples, or then again it could be a portal….Perhaps the puzzle be better ascertained: Who is Mk IV? Such answers allude us, but we know how to get there. I’ve got a vessel. Now all I need is a captain and that no good dirty iteration machine.
It’s time to build the door.