ReRites (Gnarled Pneumatic Memories)

Pneumatic Corporations give pollen to crises; we are their pores. They have no children, no laws, and no wind in their wives. Their roots melt us. For them, the sea is golden-fried spiders, a prism winking movie. Crimson backwash arising from an estuary. It Seems (кажется) I have not known care. No documentation exists in a slaughterhouse. fantasmatic tv ravine garden institutions, reveal her road -- The empty glass. The snow dazed on the rows. The foam of spittle. Taurine prolixities. The marksman’s reflex. Darkroom weakened [слабело]. Out of the Sun a basin on the surface of sadness destined to end sex drifts with gleaned yearning as birds between criteria tangle winds glowing in night’s gnarled memories [END]