The fine spice of autumn blankets the living in a bouquet of leaves as they decay and leave behind chalkline traces of a perfume savored by dying gods; we mortals dream of drafting.
Chestnut season and the time in which the blood jet cannot be stopped has begun.
Mulling spices, winehouse apples, The char of kindling, suspicious cosmic fields and my royal is singing soft flat melodies that remind me of reddened cheeks and the brisk snot-nosed hush of infancy.
For now an
excerpt from page 11...
Xenomorph Slim
When the stars were SARS---were stars when young and pretty girls make pretty dull…
graves.
Very inexpensive and intrusive to obtuse passengers contused to drug-abuse toward abstruse proof-oriented, forced choices.
Her toes curled around the bloodless brakes as the acrobatic leviathan flung itself into this
manchurian candidate tenement.
What’s left are simply photo albums
and
we are where the whistling of plane crashes chthonic for reasons undefined convoke you and curtsey
in skinny shoplifting fits,
while I lion-heart burnish in this swimming pool sky.
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