Ambient in holiday-frost, staircase velocity, gold-trim and
holding our noses all the way down.

(Marrow maple syrup thick isn't thick enough for thin, reminds you, riding down in bone and straps buckled in on each other, high-gloss and cozy, posed like surgical tools off the tray magnifique, incisor manifold while doll-forms croon in mahogany and veal carved in paths around the chamber as the sun is parodied below us, pursing lips cracking finish in the tide.)

Where they figured the theater for a womb and let the mechanism seep
in the all-alright, you hardly miss the concessions.


Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas