biting into my lung a wolf’s tooth, like a flower, blossoms and little and languid stems of blood flood out softly, like they were evil. touching the steps of time, clammy hands are trying to read the darkness, stems, incarnadine, grow fast, faster, as fast as they can, drawling their fingertips, clenching the pinion loops to photosynthesise your palms’ breath – cold, pale, long amidst the callas. flapping the geisha’s lotus fan flickers the lush of your voice – reel it – your eyelashes long – reel it – and eyes loner than universe – reel it – reel until the Technicolor runs out and the cutter cuts it off.
flashing blackness and me. silence shouts within. wolf’s roar. up oars.
styx was viscid dim black liquorice layers unravelling in slow-motion waves of thought the night deathbedding its way till the morning stabbed and grabbed what was left in the will of writing, and right where the bite was the poppies, dry, narcotised the sky until the petals crumbled off, began the countdown, each bit a beat, a bell chiming.
congregating thoughts in humble rows row their way to the sun god. lilies white like a clean piece of paper freshen the air with the first word. each black little veil unveils more and more until they flare and altogether outshine your hands with their universal monophonic prayer.