foghorn cipher
to which article turned the head anticlockwise in a whirl to see a nuance, not visual in eyes. not visual of light or whispers but of static crackles in cages where torchlines break through bars and pick out one skin-puckled pinprick sullenly shivering a shuddering letter. I.
Only in the head, it’s only in the head.
Box-of-tricks echoes ethereal sounds, attuned minimally to a silence of solitude. tins clutter space in cupboards corroding acid drips batterywise and back, dissolving wooden solutions. Suspendedly backtracking trucks down clack-tricks. Dreamtimedly. Wish.
Only in the head, it’s only in the head.
Slight bee-buzz on the periphery. Tapping of humming glass in hand, bayonet idealistic above-head flashes but implied screwcap, splashes through hands, spilling onto vapid liquid lipid. Scorched through. For you.
Only in the head, it’s only…
Nextwards a lullaby to lull me to sleep. A lull pierced by the headrushing shivering living and waking. Present here and correct but more incorrect than this action, that reaction. Clicktrack ratted into untemperate climate presented on a plate. Take.
Only in the head…
I need your hum. Your quiet drone. Your exhalation, your tiny nuance perforating and indenting the nailbeds of oxygen, coursing, pumped pure from source. The most divine fountain from which pours liquid knifeblade. These words.
Only in…
Whispers shuffled on slippery circumstance, listing twists, missing strum at vibrance times. Not going away, never going away, no. A tinpot whistle in morningtime but no change. Always found kicking at the same dusts in the air. You know where to find away. From me.
Only.
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