White clocks with black hands, mirroring your red carpets and yellow tape, create such a native tone. I’ve never such a water based form of blood and oil, as your fingernails scraped into the wet soil. Screaming blue breath of temperate thoughts, I belong more quilted in patches than carved of a tongue. Forked in my minds eyes and thrice forgetting my lungs. My nose smearing trails of sweat from the makeup you’ve bled. If I’d ever learned one thing its never leave things unsaid.
Joshua Tool 08/04/12