Thursday, 21 January 2010


A red world, swirled in crimson warmth, like the inside of a pulsating stomach, rough, hewn imbalance, the upper crust of a tongue, equal in sand-textured imperfection. Squeezed, propulsed, cushioned, heart-encapsulated, sucked into tough softness.
A gate, to your heart.
Pumping, pumping, ever open.
May your veins stay ever open, propped by hard foreign bodies.
It all comes down to this.

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