Under the sins of my autonomy:
high parachuting phonographs spinning backwards
I wish they could sense my subliminals
notes holding formation just move so
fast
and the eponymous hero stands vanquished.
A crowd of mutual sufferers
suffered to live
suffered to bear lives
suffered to twist polyglots with their suffrage
asking
Is it supposed to continue?
Mongrels
shedding water with light, basking
truth to the reign of masked contortions,
skin flapping skin to practice whole sounds
violently diminishing the god-given
supremacist silence.
Hypocrite fools of Hyperion,
your solar-panneled powers will do everything
but stop the rain you call with your forced flight mandalas
Windows of the subatomic clap shut,
my face your touch but still opposing
the radiant applomb you suggest,
offering a seat in your valence.
Is it supposed to continue?
Worry less about yo
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