Tell me the patterns don’t have no meaning, and I’ll cry myself to sleep
Tell me my bodies yours and I’ll lend my flesh to breathe
But the breath won’t cry, the breath won’t die, but it’s not exactly living
So I think what’s mine, and say hi hi, and let them suck my ‘ginty
giiiiinty, my giiiiinty, and I grab myself some gin on iceee
and I suck it dry, then say hi hi,
and they take me to my limits
The cool rain poured down from sky dark grey, day masking self as creeping eve. The plitter platter, of fist teardrops, beat madly at the crystal doors. Inside the crystal—a world within—lay writhing biomorphic form; this iron cage, though carceral, was seething with the gift of womb. For from the form, erupting slow, was face of monstrous teeth and eyes. Emerging head, and tensile neck, stretched ably out to grasp the void. This not the first, nor second burst, of life upon this fragile earth; the soil laughed, and cracked its spine, and caressed the pulse of age foretold. Hydrate the beast, it told itself, so swore out oaths of love and care. But teardrops falling, sad and long, still beat against the scaffold bare. Then mouth erupted, and bitter fangs, to shape the wind from larynx long. And out came chords, so ripe and raw, whole greenhouse creaked its marrow bones. Some solid structure, awash with blame, it willed and willed itself to move. But stuck with tide, and beat-less heart, it could only gaze at manifestion. The beast placed itself, it struck itself, and spoke with sounds it thought unheard. Did die like this, a energetic, inflamed at bliss, of self unfurled.