Lana Turner's living
Still life of words
(see baud rate, see disambiguation)
You lost me at Shirley
Temple's temple
Mounts of words
Crossed forests
Crossed out
Intimate symbol
Of sweets
Of the stink
Of subjects she sings
No man's mottled nose
No oboe
to judge
to Cleave amber
Nature is never adequate
to the revolting dead
Adolescent
Hardwood doubled
Green screened
Vibrant bullet
Organized
as if subjects exist
Not knowing it's dead
La fabrique du pre
Works day and night
Green light for white flight
As it reproduces itself
Say what?
Delete stink of flesh
Deep aura
Echo as ecstacy
Connotes
‘Heads up!’
No cognate released
No sense of singing
Vampire blood on lip
No scent of infinite thing
Gasping abreast
Posts
