Sumptuous tombs in dark halls.
Girls are drawn realistically to suspended
depths in chiaroscuro-warped, pixellated
chest-bumps, their open shawls
fraught with monomaniacal eye-shudders
in-veiling and in-rupting until untold
swords sunk like mud-bones into
mud-dimensions. There, underneath what
behooves you. What what is what is what
is. What? What hoops is. It’s the story
of black holes forged in four corners, or
orange points of the same source. Is your
face similar to my own face? Our togethered
face daggers on the lawn of your personal brewery.
