Veins are inkpots,
writers do not write, they bleed across the...

Emotions and ideas for riots
engaged empty spaces...

Gods smell on death,
gods smell on death...

On a tea party of the ghosts
the moon separates trees on two...

I am your master,
magician...

Antagonism towards quotidian eyes intumesces with...
behind denials of monochrome imperia...

His name was...
whispered only in the moments...

Antibodies group as my third eye,
the second grave...

That story cannot be told...
Why...

Crucified across the skies which shape-shift
she whispered eclipses to cloned reality...

Analyzing anemic agony
fading; painlessly...

While I stare into her white dress
-which luckily she has never wore...