so tell me why these butter feels envelop me with the asterism of apollo's obsidian arms whilst drenching me in this tragedy of fallen souls & spilling crevices of honeydew, tell me why the bottom of my heart is always oozing with crescent molasses of a dulcet so doux & feverish to the raw claps of my tongue, tasting like this marmite (so despicably delicious & of decaying flesh) of a confection so comparable to tar, so miasmic under the tucking of my oesophagus of gold blitzed by these wallflowers.

—& tell me why my eyelashes have pledged glue unto their thick curves that breach just before my supraorbital planets, & tell me why have my thoughts been clogged inside the pharynx of my bleeding throat, & tell me why my mind has mastered the art of knowing how to be afraid, (i fear the brooding hair and marmite tongues spilling blood out of their eyes) because this silence is suffocating but this loudness is unbearable, & i can only cling to a cleft so long as it drips with the safety of a thousand shields of mercy before my sun kissed fingers slip away from its' hold on this crumbling steel of darkness, & stumbles towards another fallen roman empire where i risk abandonment in this uranium mixed with nature's soil.