Now, Cyclops, do your worst - You must know by now that even the shy ghost hairs on our arms flaunt forward. And there, in searching, a tooth is in the eye, and a claw towards Venus sleeping. You find yourself sinking into irises, and such-and-such. Like your hand is acting independent from your head, forging your name on a peace contract. It was printed upside-down. Something, at last, seems ominous. Swing low.
So, when your wealth of weeds burns cold, bear up underneath that weight. You'll find a second wind. And in that place, there settled above the in-between, the best boy's key grip, masked as a latent-waking third eye, begins to slip, and the borderline shrinks into something biospheric and common under the halo of his looking finger.
And over dim headlights, the lamp of the double chokes into one common current.
The only genius recital of a cycle such as mine is one composed entirely the same, only reversed, like this - so, to wear a polished mirror directly over the heart, and to proudly claim that display as your uniform - your Song of Love.
My half of Venus began in earnest, and paused there - smart - with a mirror ribbed about her forefeatures. Knowing no sacrifice made into a blank circle was true. And every true eye, a perfect new mirror to wind deep into.
So could you please repeat that, mister? What's missing? Not a single inch of it is missing. It's all in place, and sorted well, and here comes the bright, new marching band. Trumpets roar. And we call ourselves The Adventure Dogs. Our mission? Protect the road. What was that? Have I read Rimbaud? What kind of dumb fucking question is that?
Of course I've read Rimbaud.
And now it's your turn.