The taste of theory in the back of the throat. 
Bitter sediment, seulement. Golden seal upon 
parchment lips. Tongue a quiver of slippages. 
Glottal stop, not. Concave effacement. 
Lattice 
dowse 
in the presence of such displacement. 
Litmus viscera discipline. Sorrow is round 
but emits sparks when squeezed.

Hybrid dynasties of carcinogenic saffron blossom 
across the apocalyptic centuries. Carmine tines 
of the migration into light 
another bloody mistake, took umbrage 
(my god what a language we live in) 
with fruiting bodies in likely nightshade 
and the hallucinatory lines of flight 
of radicalized capital.

<^>

cs/djd