Architects In Dirty Underwear

It's never sunny anymore. The dirt is there. Only I can't see it. It stays. I get used to it. Turbines of skin. Choking on touch.

The world is ice cubes. Made of when. The rain used to stop. And all those people actually believed that they mattered to someone.

Dust. Everywhere.

Time trembling in his crotch. Some awful sabotage of nature. That any woman will do.

Talking to the penguin. Useless wings are a comfort. Precious black holes save me from an infinite universe. The dime on its hind legs. One more wish. Before the past catches us. Wearing the walls like a prom dress. A crown of semen. A sash made of placenta.

Dancing. To the loud music of forever. Dead children. Drawing the sky with missing fingers. Unprepared artists. Spoiled by too many colors.

Wherever I've been I must've always been there. No going back. Only remembering what isn't. Thwarted by stubborn skin. The world builds to change. In piles of dead men.

The Aristotle in his pants faltering. As the world proved flat.

And I found myself fresh out of spheres.