Teatime for Turandots

Some kind of king. With fists made of when. Sturdy algorithms chase the chaos in her head. Thinking backdoor. Seeing basement. Dirty levers play with the velocity. Of angry raindrops.

The roof. Singing. In effortless defiance. The atom splits. Like the rush of pussy on his lips. He tastes the future in the blunt lunges of her pelvis. Time sits there on its perch. A parrot waiting for something to mimic. Time sits there. So certain of the math. There's nothing else.

Manic randoms in a cold surrender. Solvent plateaus. Negotiate the altitudes of flesh. Sublime with numbers. Liars. And dirty windows. Better to see the rain with big sticks. Better to wear the costume rather than the mask.

I see so many of us she admitted. As the drug couched her cure. I see angry men crouched in their time machines. Creating too many empty worlds. I see the green light up ahead. and the red one far behind. I see time in layers of skin. Picking at its scabs.