With a Swoop

It wouldn't kill me to find new frequencies in a temper tantrum. Tatamis and memory, magnetized selves becoming heavy. Of what is a scream composed? You may want to know. You may want to know why. It is to these arabesques that the birdsong replies. Copula, disappear. Anguish, multifoliate. I am a brother to a wandering prayer. Orb in ruined loop fluting for a lost future. I grab what is left of pistons bouncing across a street. The barricade is foolproof.