1300 1 1
|
so I tighten hands with my castaway and say/you failed to impress in your folded peacock dress
|
2100
|
Ono doubted Seriality made any sense for reality, but it was fine for fiction.
|
73075
|
Tokyo is the dream we never had.
|
103700
|
Rosea plays a bohemian plainsong for the cosmonauts among us, while her fuzzy apple hips spit glitter, spin strobes: pink shades of pantyline flicker; lip-licked neon hues scrape strings in B sharp, a gloomy clue.
|
110500
|
Can you see the rut? Can you dig your fingers into the flesh?
|
119101
|
She overcomes herself on the day of the spectacle, clown paint, unmoving amid a rumble of trains and screens, video logs and snapshots, live blogs from phones wet with lotion. This is Tokyo. Facial masks. Bare flaking paint in streams. Stardust.
|
109220
|
She dips a toothpick in ink, running prick over paper, simply to prove herself wrong.
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