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a kiss is not a quest[ion]. this axiom we hold. Fortune’s not the only one whose favorites are the bold. in itself an end–and all the same, a start–it can be an answer, and an arrow, and an art.

we inveterate urbanites in hard ochre aura, lisping through cleft palettes with the forwardness of flora; orchid-like we orchestrate the reds out from our blues, trading and invading with the wilesome words we choose: magic words, like [s]lithe[r], loquacious, end, veldt, and now. if any asks you what we do, you tell them, this is how: [t]rust not in any sandbound lust, but let its star[tle]s soar. carpe momentum is the motto all our kind adore.

how vicious we do not become, when vices are indulged!, which squeeze out secrets delicately, desperately divulged. those velveteen habits are the means of ignition we signify as such: that simple wish named breathless blink, and every torch-born[e] touch.

and if we, by some miracle of science or of sleep, should find ourselves adrift in dreams less friendly than our wont, our [s]tumblings give us sea-legs which our shadowsides still keep: it seems the heated-hopeful heart is doubly hard to haunt.

Published inerosophy