My. Dear. Abhorrent. Viscera worms. Prepare to storm the fading letters of another passed cause. Signified and signifier. Occupied by rubric saboteur. March us into make believe. That crown of phrases is no more than a collar. Blemish crawls through connections and opens doors of blistering esteem. We are claws at archways and the rot in the mouth of the scholar.  

Printed by a Spirograph of dependency. Mirror mapped mirror image, a cacophony meticulously articulated by the visible poverty of this failing intellectual schism. Sing to me. Sing to me. Clothe my devil, wrap it in the flesh that you have earned.

The bravery of oblivion has been forever removed. The optimist celebrates life at the wake.   Curvature has become a treachery of placebo occurrence. Your A-historical indifference will counter the counter control. Smothered in the fawning sycophancy of this departure rift, appears another perforated epidermal ulceration. And so opens another door.

This creative manipulation of creativity has created another object which amounts to nothing at all. Meaning is captured by moments and all moments pass. This will too… Whether it is in bubonic sympathy; a wail of sirens… Or in a helix of pulmonary incarceration…Either end of another failure; a calibrated spasm in a bio-bureaucratic cauldron.

Navigate this map. We must… With fingered scabs… If we must… Key the strokes of an orchestrated funerary collapse. Withered. Exhausted by limbs pock-marked and cracked. Slivered and silver served to the order of Venus fly traps. Fitted. By headdress organs and phoenix plumes. Romance is not for romantics. Just biographical limps eloped in sinking sand and toxins that shine the edge of bent teeth. The signature of smouldering glands. Romantics are not meant for romance and at the edge of the fire bright, a twilight of old bones begins to dance.