Nicolas Nicolad

i had a runaway day
and spoke my running mouth
into spools of liquid golden yarns
they made precious sweaters
that only lasted for an afternoon
but the dust
the little temples
the piles of persimmon upon the floor
they woke up everyone
and when the wind
set them alight
it was night
and we were breathing golden mist
speaking in woven circles
all about this myth
we had once heard
called a dawn
it whispers, fingers, reaches itself alive before us
we pop and sizzle and breathe (first time) all over again
crawl, to holy hovel
our powdered hands before us

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quadrants of actualization corresponding unto transjuxposition, or, superimposition in the spectrum of unprecedented hypercongruency

the relegade rainbow of this hyper-memetic (super inundative) abberation (the pseuda-absent, or, (a) (an) insidious semblance of pristine redundancy as relevating the vitality of the magical concept "repetition") construct renders request to most gesturally acknowledge the disparaging wealthing (the 'gasm