small exorcisms

When your heart corresponds with your mind, then, give it a shot, you write back to me what expressions you so badly need to bleed; the characterisation of letters are alphabet soup to me, child's play, peeling tattoos like bells ringing over a tongue not speaking, I swallow words hungrily then I spit them out, bullets that pierce a page, bulls eyes staring back through the black holes, the other silent horns, all silently complicit small missions of truth cornucopias, wearing through the thin fabric of ludicrous fantasy feathers that fall from soft pillows quaking against levees breaking the barriers hitting marks the sands of time broken, river banks splitting, the bodies drowned and sucked up like works of art in a hyped up Hieronymus Bosch, if you are in deep you can make sense of it all, you know you're in it, that picture, way, way up to your eyeballs brushing against all the others, removed, flotsam and jetsam in the wash, sensing the path they all took, but the mystery of never quite knowing, like a smell, pervades charcoal tears melt all the ways a heart can be kicked down and gutted witnessed through gilt edged windows full and jaded to a gate opening, the sound cracking like a mouth terraforming dustied and green the shaman soul found underneath it all, humourously rustling sage over the external, a serious novice for burning small exorcisms smoking out renegades, those stubborn seeds planted in long spent sentences, those true romantics, the forgotten ill-bred, well-tilled, rebel poets small exorcisms for burning Candide Diderot. ‘24 violins.