An album is a run-on sentence that stops at the end of the record

All music is untouchable physicality,
your ears are your heart is your soul is your body
is an instrument thrumming with tormented purpose,
skin waiting for incandescent fervour to surface

like iridescent fish with hooks tucked in black gullet;
the aural aura of secondhand pain seeks to dull itself
in velveteen flesh, cushioned blows, a bruised soul
oh-so-tortured; billowing and swallowing whole

and you plunge into the maw of misheard prophecies
which nevertheless bite into bleeding beliefs
and blessings are feelings are blessings once more
like the sound-fog half-moons on your arms account for

so that finally like honey-scent gold-dimple sunrise
some tear-flush, some swelling of a full-felt flood dies
and is birthed again in melting diamond-burst streams
to give no mention of love in these feverish dreams.

The End

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