Lingering voices, in the scrap yard like a metaphore,
grinding noises from a man with,
sodomized lingerie.
Hacking scraping burning churning squirming laughter.
Backround amnesia, delay.
Once was a dawn, their way.
Shattered mirrors of broken reflections,
stitched image, acception.
Jagged agregations
The selfish feeling,
as if tears rolling down icy layers,
of warmth, sliding down a barrel.
That remains.
Half of life portrayed through smiles of,
infatuations with chemical conscience.
Machines.
Words spit salt, please.
They were beautiful.
Seperated pieces widespread.
Hanging the saw from beneath the wrench,
explosion of