deepundergroundpoetry.com
Choreoatheosis
As to, when I felt my root coincide within yours,
the squared singular cosines formed a double vision with the visual miasmic flows, falling mines emotion.
One truth from that double, neurotic form matter, no type O Negative in soldering squares, a-glow shined contempt that I've held.
For the slumber you've dreamed, I have snoozed embraced in warmth of your circuits passion.
Floating nightingale sung the chirp, I sleep blissful lullabies of your breath, moonlight dust under the covers of city lights, so late into the early variable after-insomia.
And if we drink the flask of sea rum, embroidered in lime lint and cherry mint incentive, your skin is the soft undertone that nurtured to the shaking glitch of my Choreoatheosis .
-
The days of juice and post symphonic rhythm, in a river of steam, mist, shaking me to the core of contemporaries,
I were a begrudgen a ghost, have formed matter, the flesh I have shapen, in shape the driven gift from Ardor.
And if we have feasted, the tin in practical whiteness, very wired into semblance concrete's of the towns circuits,
We may base our roots as a un-chained cage masons, the Left handed sacredness spoken with mere digits and words.
Compatriot comrade, I sail away once more in chrome oceans, into warm cunningness, when your arms cross branched 'round the spineoak, that has twitched my very core.
the squared singular cosines formed a double vision with the visual miasmic flows, falling mines emotion.
One truth from that double, neurotic form matter, no type O Negative in soldering squares, a-glow shined contempt that I've held.
For the slumber you've dreamed, I have snoozed embraced in warmth of your circuits passion.
Floating nightingale sung the chirp, I sleep blissful lullabies of your breath, moonlight dust under the covers of city lights, so late into the early variable after-insomia.
And if we drink the flask of sea rum, embroidered in lime lint and cherry mint incentive, your skin is the soft undertone that nurtured to the shaking glitch of my Choreoatheosis .
-
The days of juice and post symphonic rhythm, in a river of steam, mist, shaking me to the core of contemporaries,
I were a begrudgen a ghost, have formed matter, the flesh I have shapen, in shape the driven gift from Ardor.
And if we have feasted, the tin in practical whiteness, very wired into semblance concrete's of the towns circuits,
We may base our roots as a un-chained cage masons, the Left handed sacredness spoken with mere digits and words.
Compatriot comrade, I sail away once more in chrome oceans, into warm cunningness, when your arms cross branched 'round the spineoak, that has twitched my very core.
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