This spermy speck rides a thin black rail, the moving side, ornate frameworks. Music ingested through twisted gods; air, a grim herald whose cruel message, completely misunderstood, droops an unnatural threshold. Measure the barb, inspects the depth of a bleeding wound. (The way a moustache observes a situation.) And gloves and frayed wires—we had tried and failed to cry baroque choruses in red corridors. It was named, “How Noise Ascends Its Neck”, simple paeans were bleak for gasping interiors. Now the paint rides its frame, now the beast bucks. The ambiguous saxophone pronounces its final curse. Of those real doors whose corners crawl earnestly south. I balance my arbitrary convictions, grinningly hurl the ghostly circumscription, the final fabulation— here, upon this soft linguistic rock, the air will vibrate with the involuted shape.