to fetch back · the fierce mechas
cerulean under
poems posted · appease them nil
is there any light but mercy?
ears ring ragged · with restive unsong
bay clear to the bottom
in the blurred spume · a spider dozes
misses the web quiver
darkness dilates · with instant dowse
signature of so much force
the mechas fierce · as they batter down
each painstaking construct
“Always now the thought of the perfume in its cheap fluted glass bottle with gold paper label brings me back to that shitty room, its darkness, the blue typewriter on the folding table, the bad linoleum, these traits a carapace camouflaging a small freedom that gently expanded inside me like a subtle new organ, an actual muscular organ born of my own desire for what I took to be an impossible and necessary language. Its sillage was an architecture.” –The Baudelaire Fractal
Illustration from Parsifal. (anagram-rhyme)
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