Friday, December 17, 2010

Dawn Will Eat History

dusk cannot eat history and hammer in a shell. the seat of a butterfly or a masochist's hell. the sulking shriek of a stroke of luck. from the homeless dreams of a calculator's fuck.

definition cannot move gravity or explain the portraits of a schizophrenic. heaven in a new dream. strangled in an animal's scream. the sandman better cry from the outside and empty into a field of bees. the emptiness. thrust crosswise. my desire around your day cell like a pimp in business season, moons through critical fornications and i heard her call my name.

rock and roll, baby. fear cannot bubble into a bankster's martyr. nor creep into the feeling that we're all linguistic knots. the hunter's kiss is a potential gift from a material god who collapsed into your field. and multiplied into names. i intercept the center. you avoid my secret demarcation, creating with a separation. like an angel being analyzed by a rat. dusk can eat history. lamenting the mystery of a phenomenal supercomputer.

i degrade again. you point me to the door. the vine of heaven is around my neck. a disposable sanity. a conjecture of the speculum. suckled around your clarity. dawn will eat history with a normative sun and a universal tooth.

another day then. one hundred years then. a grinding halt, then, the chaoticist becomes a god-knot. better assimilate into a punisher or the birds will sing an apocalypse of apples and our knees will become bloodflowers mirrored with peoples.

dawn will eat history, and rewrite our names in a homesick heaven. to be mused by sentient reptiles, who repopulate the stratasphere and dance on our bones.

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