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Description
x.

was it you who said that life is just  a line on the palm of my hand,
making its way across our geography,

     like
       alluvial
            straits

and cutting jagged pathways
   through our hands, before settling on your wrist,
      finding a place
         altogether unpopulated?

or that 'electricty' was defined merely by the lines
      that i traced, up and down your cold sleeping spine, in motions slowed only by the heat of our

eyes (and the lack of words or need for words in that moment that held only this life)

in a way i think you're right.

i'm feeling akin to a metaphor - when did THAT happen?

i'm counting every verse in a way that makes it seem important -

and you're hard asleep in the depths of these dreams,

      your skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed and
ultimately settling with one arm across my forehead and one ear to the ceiling,

     everybreath, revealing an aspect of this geography.

and all i want to do is join you there, my skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed,

revealing aspects of this geography, in a rather synchronised and syncopated rhythm.

if this should end so abrubtly i should find it improbable,
    time is moving sideways in synchronised syncopated rhythm and our skeletons are topographies of

an otherwise barren geography.

are we really made of such boring things...?

       a wolf/parade
      is running through the city
             and Semnai:sings,
       a most beautiful song

  and all the words:in our veins...

               dis s  o   l      v        e.
.....

---------------------------------------

&I, Hemishperical.

and/ampersand,
       you're twirling these words about like fate,
  endearing them with a sense that nothing is forgotten,
           as of yet as of late.

                    and you know that
            nothing else here is pointA>pointB
  because the blood running through your veins is really rather sanguine, and i have a feeling that

you can feel it too,

       pulsing in syncopated rhythm.

  and there is more to this:if this should end so soon i would find it remarkable,

             time is floating backwards in dissected dissolved rhythm,

reflecting a breath of rememembrance even over this horrid canvas,
                 blue and unmoving terrestial drink
           as seen from the depths of this most horrid and expeditious cloud.

     so skipping on the the this and that,
  it settles on these words without words,
        and everything that once began should have to have it's ending.

words
   without words,

in silent diction unfathomable,
       or perhaps in the depths of this more tangible worry
that i won't ever float again.

i'll never be a bird, i'd like to be a plane
  but either way it's the same - because our minds are still in flight and your eyes yes your eyes

transcend it.

the ceiling is closing in, and i can't get away from this.

     the ocean is rising and falling,
            and i can't get away from this.

it must've been the tidal waves,
     that took you away.
because in the halflight of the moon your eyes were in flight and they were crooked and the sky yes

the sky it floated (over our heads) like spilled ink.

but at least you tried -

    you've never known better than this, because as the sun
falls from the hemisphere,

you turn and say the most beautiful thing:
    "i never thought we'd find ourselves in this halflight"

---------------------------------------

II. the city&the sky, I Unfathomable

       did you ever believe
that things would be more different?
            or perhaps
  more transitory in their magnitudes,

like a
     far
        more
            different

way of being?
or seeming?

serpent sings, a cacaphonous euphony in voice as in words as in voice,
    as in
lackthereof.

speaking in anorexia slang,
   and speaking in a way that seems to say:
"I can't believe these things, these things, I can't belive these horrid wings, this voice still

haunts me in my dreams, I've never seen such horrid things..."

because these streetlights
     are moving
            like fireflies.

and despite the constant movement of this slang,
    these words yes these words they never change.

and the moon is still in half-light flight
    and i've never seen such crooked eyes
the way they move, in transitory ways.
      reflecting the things most last remembered.

because a wolf parade,
  is running through the city
and serpent:sings, a most horrible song.

and all the words:in your veins,
   begin to dissolve,
at first breath of this most horrible slang.

and sometimes i wonder
   if the collective breaths and muttered curses of this most horrid city,
coalesce to make the clouds.

and if that's the case, then i do think
     that every sigh and whisper of words turns the sky
into a deeper shade of reddishblack.

( right now it's floating above us, like spilled ink,
    and for some reason it feels far more different,
  not porous but far more concrete,
      and i can't break through this horrid ink-sky

   because it just floats above me, in constant apogee,
like in the last moment of a birthday card or broadway play)

i'll never be a bird, i'd like to be a plane.

but either way, it's the same,

i'll never float again.

---------------------------------------

III. (you've got) cold hands, Phaedrus

      there are cold hands in this dark
  and they move only in a rhythmical way,
expanding and contracting chambers and a strange sort of machinery,
      and a sort of disposition towards pattern recognition.

Phaedrus moves in his usual way,
   and tells you things you never wanted to hear,
and floats around like a spectre, always there.

   and serpent sings, a most horrible song -
depicting a flat canvas
     inhabited only by airs
  of horrid, horrid speech.

dark.  dark.  summer.
  and the traffic moves like fireflies.
  and time is moving backwards, but all i want to do is stay,
     in the presence of this most wonderous slang.

i could fall backwards,
   into that canvas inhabited only by words,
and never be seen again.
      (into the depths of this more tangible worry)

the ground is closing in, and i can't get away from this...

    but serpent sings, and by these horrid wings,

by words by text as voice as speech (yours is disconnected, and cacaphonous, ringing with airs of

whispers.

      and we moved towards this dark,
   [dark.  dark.  summer. ]
and cold, cold, hands.

    and we would never
float again.)

//////
  Phaedrus, did you seen the sun, E
                                 S
                                I/n chemical limbo?
                               R

because in the light of that horrid moon,
   your eyes yes your eyes they shined
and all i wanted to do was freeze in this moment, this moment
      of half-light.

and the distant,
      and mechanized glow
  of that horrid city,

only rang in the backround,


       that most horrid slang...

a wolf parade
is running through the city.
and Simnai:sings
a most unusual song

but in this moment inhabited,
   only by words,

we saw

        the light

               in our eyes.

Description
x.

was it you who said that life is just  a line on the palm of my hand,
making its way across our geography,

     like
       alluvial
            straits

and cutting jagged pathways
   through our hands, before settling on your wrist,
      finding a place
         altogether unpopulated?

or that 'electricty' was defined merely by the lines
      that i traced, up and down your cold sleeping spine, in motions slowed only by the heat of our

eyes (and the lack of words or need for words in that moment that held only this life)

in a way i think you're right.

i'm feeling akin to a metaphor - when did THAT happen?

i'm counting every verse in a way that makes it seem important -

and you're hard asleep in the depths of these dreams,

      your skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed and
ultimately settling with one arm across my forehead and one ear to the ceiling,

     everybreath, revealing an aspect of this geography.

and all i want to do is join you there, my skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed,

revealing aspects of this geography, in a rather synchronised and syncopated rhythm.

if this should end so abrubtly i should find it improbable,
    time is moving sideways in synchronised syncopated rhythm and our skeletons are topographies of

an otherwise barren geography.

are we really made of such boring things...?

       a wolf/parade
      is running through the city
             and Semnai:sings,
       a most beautiful song

  and all the words:in our veins...

               dis s  o   l      v        e.
.....

---------------------------------------

&I, Hemishperical.

and/ampersand,
       you're twirling these words about like fate,
  endearing them with a sense that nothing is forgotten,
           as of yet as of late.

                    and you know that
            nothing else here is pointA>pointB
  because the blood running through your veins is really rather sanguine, and i have a feeling that

you can feel it too,

       pulsing in syncopated rhythm.

  and there is more to this:if this should end so soon i would find it remarkable,

             time is floating backwards in dissected dissolved rhythm,

reflecting a breath of rememembrance even over this horrid canvas,
                 blue and unmoving terrestial drink
           as seen from the depths of this most horrid and expeditious cloud.

     so skipping on the the this and that,
  it settles on these words without words,
        and everything that once began should have to have it's ending.

words
   without words,

in silent diction unfathomable,
       or perhaps in the depths of this more tangible worry
that i won't ever float again.

i'll never be a bird, i'd like to be a plane
  but either way it's the same - because our minds are still in flight and your eyes yes your eyes

transcend it.

the ceiling is closing in, and i can't get away from this.

     the ocean is rising and falling,
            and i can't get away from this.

it must've been the tidal waves,
     that took you away.
because in the halflight of the moon your eyes were in flight and they were crooked and the sky yes

the sky it floated (over our heads) like spilled ink.

but at least you tried -

    you've never known better than this, because as the sun
falls from the hemisphere,

you turn and say the most beautiful thing:
    "i never thought we'd find ourselves in this halflight"

---------------------------------------

II. the city&the sky, I Unfathomable

       did you ever believe
that things would be more different?
            or perhaps
  more transitory in their magnitudes,

like a
     far
        more
            different

way of being?
or seeming?

serpent sings, a cacaphonous euphony in voice as in words as in voice,
    as in
lackthereof.

speaking in anorexia slang,
   and speaking in a way that seems to say:
"I can't believe these things, these things, I can't belive these horrid wings, this voice still

haunts me in my dreams, I've never seen such horrid things..."

because these streetlights
     are moving
            like fireflies.

and despite the constant movement of this slang,
    these words yes these words they never change.

and the moon is still in half-light flight
    and i've never seen such crooked eyes
the way they move, in transitory ways.
      reflecting the things most last remembered.

because a wolf parade,
  is running through the city
and serpent:sings, a most horrible song.

and all the words:in your veins,
   begin to dissolve,
at first breath of this most horrible slang.

and sometimes i wonder
   if the collective breaths and muttered curses of this most horrid city,
coalesce to make the clouds.

and if that's the case, then i do think
     that every sigh and whisper of words turns the sky
into a deeper shade of reddishblack.

( right now it's floating above us, like spilled ink,
    and for some reason it feels far more different,
  not porous but far more concrete,
      and i can't break through this horrid ink-sky

   because it just floats above me, in constant apogee,
like in the last moment of a birthday card or broadway play)

i'll never be a bird, i'd like to be a plane.

but either way, it's the same,

i'll never float again.

---------------------------------------

III. (you've got) cold hands, Phaedrus

      there are cold hands in this dark
  and they move only in a rhythmical way,
expanding and contracting chambers and a strange sort of machinery,
      and a sort of disposition towards pattern recognition.

Phaedrus moves in his usual way,
   and tells you things you never wanted to hear,
and floats around like a spectre, always there.

   and serpent sings, a most horrible song -
depicting a flat canvas
     inhabited only by airs
  of horrid, horrid speech.

dark.  dark.  summer.
  and the traffic moves like fireflies.
  and time is moving backwards, but all i want to do is stay,
     in the presence of this most wonderous slang.

i could fall backwards,
   into that canvas inhabited only by words,
and never be seen again.
      (into the depths of this more tangible worry)

the ground is closing in, and i can't get away from this...

    but serpent sings, and by these horrid wings,

by words by text as voice as speech (yours is disconnected, and cacaphonous, ringing with airs of

whispers.

      and we moved towards this dark,
   [dark.  dark.  summer. ]
and cold, cold, hands.

    and we would never
float again.)

//////
  Phaedrus, did you seen the sun, E
                                 S
                                I/n chemical limbo?
                               R

because in the light of that horrid moon,
   your eyes yes your eyes they shined
and all i wanted to do was freeze in this moment, this moment
      of half-light.

and the distant,
      and mechanized glow
  of that horrid city,

only rang in the backround,


       that most horrid slang...

a wolf parade
is running through the city.
and Simnai:sings
a most unusual song

but in this moment inhabited,
   only by words,

we saw

        the light

               in our eyes.