| You look beautiful still in the cloths
|
| You wear in the photograph
|
| If you could see the missiles that count time
|
| As I have seen them and ride them
|
| The Hunter lounges beside her studded with petals
|
| Magnifies the Valley
|
| In the Garden of Fires
|
| The head of the face
|
| Of the grave of heaven
|
| The fear on the tiny smile of
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| SilverFlashState
|
| The agnoised pain of collisions of Crescents
|
| The apocalypse girl—Chiara in her hat—
|
| Sits and talks to atoms and planets
|
| That descend from the trees
|
| Bending their knees
|
| She calls my name knowing
|
| She is famed for the flowers
|
| That pour from her teeth
|
| Sometimes before Aquarius
|
| Gave birth to murders in armour
|
| Oh yeah! |
| camoflage!
|
| Before the Stars of the Seas contacted me
|
| When we were still
|
| Long, long times ago
|
| Haunted I wound string
|
| Haunting them
|
| Pulled umbilical cords from lovers' dream
|
| Made savage thread
|
| Worshipped pricks or frocks or creatures
|
| Called
|
| Or or
|
| Look! |
| The walker is on the grass
|
| Ebony or words for forms
|
| Let’s piss peace on the shadows
|
| The chorus
|
| Rolls like sores over the wreckage
|
| Of minor moons and white electrics
|
| Lectures on despair
|
| Points to the Queer Queen’s toes
|
| In silk or shit or space |