I can’t
stone the death. Can’t run the spectrum of lights for sale. Every possession
determines the clarification of sandstone and saltwater. It’s gravity between
soul searches, searching for souls between rocks and hard places. The slippery
scene, falling right off the arrow’s ledge. Courageous diegesis framed by
kinetic distortions. I am the red hunter that waits and waits, waits for the
dance to unravel, to unsoar, to unsoothe the dream to make for a lonely
avalanche to unloose chords, cords, falling forward, calling towards an
unaching, unhinged light.
I am the
weight awaiting trial. I am awaiting the loss of broad flashes. I am a culled
dream, the slight distortion of falling. I am the red hunter that quelled the
stones right out, quelled the disease so you could remake, renew. It’s loss
before gain, loss between gates, the swollen reminder, echoes unclear and
unbroken between beats in the dark. Slow freak, the crawl of the creek, slow
and cold, culled late and between sheets. Echo of the sweet, the solipsistic
desire, the groove of this goddamned light. I fought for scissors and knives,
fought to open my body up until there was nothing left, nothing but meat and
bones and sinews of blonde and black, the sinews like coiled frames unfurled,
finally released into starless tissue and bones.