After tagging the dust your body is made of
After tagging the dust your body is made of sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone's pleasure around the ball joint, shading inside the names. When I pass your body in the hallway the illumination gives us three minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish dying. Electricity changes, there is no body to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward past my desires into the formal living room with its collection of bells and its collection of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across my statement of purpose. To endanger all sense, I lay the body out of its own range of prediction. Token animal, what you know is circling the house, waiting for the first person or its shadow to appear. Without looking forward to sinking through the body, I am still mostly lover position. Place the bone in the window spider plant and beacon.