perspiration chilled is a failed reminder of my
bashful efforts to kill the monsters i run from every
night through all the familiarity arise the demons of
a soul too pure for this filtered reality in which
i'll grow indefinitely nurtured shaded in this
remembrance of what is real shadows account for what
these hollow shells truly do i know you'd jump this
convolution grows barters itself for lucidity and if
terraform elevates your feet/caught mangled halfway
and in between/should we ever exchange words then i
know that you would jump (i'll run in circles torn
hooves) chariots whipping their red wheels in
constant turbine (the wood i've drawn on my back)
lashing whips from the creaked spokes burn edges
(of the flickering lumen) of the film grain that
plays back a warped projection (burn/deteriorate/die)
in playback forever like the candidates of this
rolodex
