Mother the curved gates are coarse in the cave. Mother the children are in tears…crawling to the primordial place from which they entered. They find themselves too big to fit back inside; the only thing that will fit is the key. The key that curves especially into the grooved chambers of your yoni…bursting feelings that mature every one in the instant of their instinctual performance…to mount, and ride the fear, and collapse in due time in some forgotten Celtic garden…they tried to run, tried to hide, but break, (a break)(a cut) (a rip) (something was left and never finished) (back online) //////*&?//$#/??//////////////// aaaaaaareeeeeee…are but rhyming recall, in the caracal. The animal ailment, curling up to lick wounds in the next incarnation…seeds, sounds from the dark, derangement, fashionable grace, yet torn from the barb wire of the prisoners. They took the material that shackled them and rearranged that and used that against the whole subtle Victorian world
(Ella winks at me)
(the eggs are ready)
(the seeds are still in the ground).
Turning words, turning whips into pleasure instruments (Ella smirks). Perfumed the future in orbit(sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss)(glitch)(back online) The smell of empty space, next to the moon, she moans in orbit.
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