The Body Canvas

And for all that is left, like purposeful pity, for me, I make of it my own, take of it into myself, then rearrange it where it isn’t quite the social fit. And when those gunpowder cavities explode, scattering black canaries into a indistinguishable atmosphere, one can almost hear the tell of Nazarenes told from their own tongue language centuries ago, the wear and tear of the ill-advised, mudpuddle, fiddling, finding, annoyingly all unlived, scaffoldings of old columns, the orifice of either-ordifferentiation, the snare of “In the beginning was the word” where still compromised storks reminds us of lilies and snakes being seduced by the same sun, when the puritanical couple lights candles, chant their few hailmarys before they are comfortable enough to unleash what humanism is within even the misanthrope.