Revolving

I vomit sheets of bile from a pit of transgression lazy in splendor behind glassy pages laminated by decadence while craving any space away from the hero-machine and the fashion of scant that lofts opinion into the stratosphere to lope with the garbage circling the globe. Spent cycles of promotion line the pen I sequester myself within until every whim dangles disposable in function, another reminder of the transparency of flesh strutting so confident the eye strains to find marvels of creation divine tangled in the dynamic code of existence. Only in the negative wisp of velveteen darkness does a whisper of pattern beyond word or image reveal more than superficial slogans calling the pure towards the galleon assembled without the vantage of dream to bombard all genius towards self-desecrated loathing for the senselessness of this naked plight. Is it any wonder I can't relate to you when buried behind such garbage?