The ruins and small of a back, tiny ripples on the pallid, edible skin, it doesn't matter what anyone thinks of me. All we do is bicker and create, surgically open arteries and introduce slow poison, the perfumed gluts of death in which I breathe, we can barely speak, wet with body heat, blood in the water, the candy-coated light over the mortuary, insane artifacts in an insane world, a complex puzzle in a cold mountain lake, remnants of cat-like lovers prowl around and hunch up like passerines, a sketch and ink work, artwork mosaic in the flowery branches, the Heavens bristle in rapture, a mad delight in battle, slippery and teeth marks like piranha all over me.
