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.