the fox hears the rabbit screaming. it is a terrible thing, twist of a knife, portrait of a throat on fire.

what is it like to be god? to be cinder blooded? to weave dreams into nightmares? be the thing that goes bump in the night?

it is hysteria. it is black roses and ash-burnt lungs. it is beating the wind with raven wings, stirring skies into phantoms and moonlight into tricks. it is crumpled paper in a fire, disintegrating, as if it never was.

at night we gather like all the birds of the wood : we, oil slick : dusk blue electricity effervescent in our throats : we snow dream : exhale moon shards in your coffee : we capture our auras in Polaroids : aurora borealis in pale orange & pink & azure : were we ever here, or are we lucid dreams? : we are the longest night of the year : acrobatic & melodrama : back to abnormal : back to bitter breath blows transitioning into dawn with butterfly wing delicacy : may we slice open the throat of monotony : we nurture this newness with two hands : we dream with both eyes open : spread the filth of our souls further : may we always be unreturnable : adrift : there is a cure for everything : except : we, black feathered : too river damp to catch fire