Rafters bleat in high-beam vibrato, curry for the grift.
Latches and locks all liquid in trance.
Coming in through the seventh side, loud and leering.

Teeth chatter in major key, jubilant gnash, calling down rhythm sect on the one-two-too.

Used to be a camera up there, strung up in cable and snug in chicken-wire furnishing, rust and lace.
Dolled up in service station drag on acetone finish, blushing through ceramic, iris wailing in the alcove, kept in mandible step but gone now, all gone now.
Gaze is gone and gotten and though you insisted it was only a guess it sounded so sure.

So sincere.

When the tempo slips and kills the valence.


Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas