Is There Any Risk
Commodified virgin tones of sweet. Smoking Minotaur basks in police allegiance and cooks buoyant crackle-mounts raised for a moisture war.
Suede bullets carpet a monkfish theater. Lung curtains sway to a harlequin’s voice shard. Actresses coo. Cast off, individually, into 10 second DMT dreams.
Call cadences via a blue Styrofoam phone. Bead head the amnesty while wailing bliss into convent microphones.
Alleyway necklace bleached through nose, ear, mouth. Fetish deer graze upon carp-fed lawn. The bloodletting doilies, dear, are anchored by a red ribbon tied to the trigger of a vibrating dagger-heart-ed pistol.