A recent composition; I have been experimenting with chaos lately (form fits function, after all). This is only a first draft, and not the final realization. I have little time for it, but this release will help compel me toward the fatal birthing.
through the gap and felt what I could feel; the fiveoclock air had
gnawed away
sensation.
this white roseflesh is close as I can come to breathing you,
pink-flecked with disease. you cough a raggy foxtail spume
into the fiveohthree air
like a train (the pistons do not touch and yet the earth trembles),
and it smells
like your red throat.
my hand on your lowest rib
the blue morning
thrashes against my fingernails and
your
ferret-belly,
harried with soft vulpine hunger.
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