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Out of unraveled slits it declines a voice.
Worm brush with trilobite mazes,
Nothing inside wilderness.
Black sun throwing certain marbles'
Then it dies there, timelessly.
Once. First fall morning. Stop, think of armies without lead cloth or tricycles:
The silence and pocket-lint could have been better used.
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that's pretty damn good, i felt like i was trying to catch up with the words while i was reading them. writing in this style is risky for most writers, but you do it effortlessly. your voice creates the power that drives it so well. sadness with a jaggedly perceptive tone. nicely done.
this i like a lot...love the images, now i have an idea what you consider experimental. Time to read your other uploads. But I am in favor of your style of writing. A touch avant and it does not explain everything which I personally like a lot. Thanks for sharing.
