Monday, April 2, 2007

Affixed to the Temple Pulse

The flow is golden, I tried
to de-song it
into two positions
of the eye

The wing
has mutated
into a burger

Everything up
in the victory
as an age of Fall

One of the four
seasons the Romans
clashed into the chart
of seeing days

Circling with time
Second-tears drawn
around approximate
cites, an elixir

Helm of life
Crime, final crying

Heal me, let's
begin with a shattered
cup, rippling

fist crushing you
down into hotness