martes, 18 de diciembre de 2012


(when two particles collide,
space is revealed
to be anything,
anything but nothingness.) And
surely, time is ripe
breaking down, like a schizophrenic primadonna
under the bridge. And the moon
is, but the loudest
whisper (slobbery and sexy)
tickling the ear-
lobe, with a truth
often thought too much,
much too incredible, much too
stunning, much too good to be true. (so motherfuckers call it a secret). And
surely, the taste of your sweat
is living
proof; a holographic testament
to the uncoiling riot of honey-
glazed galaxies (honey). Drink
me, you will see. Meantime,
I'll be chainsmoking laughter, and saving
money for the premiere.

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