Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Dead Heads

1 comment:

  1. Again and again and again, because that is the way of it - since flesh is grass.
    The brush will not define, not truly displace space - immaterial.
    The ochre paint is dry as chaff. The pink sweetness of perfume and pigment leaches away like fading memory.
    No heated ferment of corruption, just gradual desiccation to husk and seeds.
    Shocking red mouth, vulva, anachronistic glimpse of former potency, disturbs the gentle melancholy.

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