Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

All me sparks fly all night; all my mouth axle bright, wheel the true guillotine serpents’ fleck amber sweat off my waistline, sibilant as touch-me-nots’ shuttered leaves rattling Death in the Arena. Honey Blight and Armageddon. I am Thorn Tongue, bare sprite-child nerved against neon slush and ants trap, I squeal, bitten, “Mother O mother… come!” No one but echo and ice. Day fevers dusk a Midas wisp. Torched corona. I am adagio, brisk, cool and deadly onstage; my visible black flares yellow, speckled lava. All me manna chrome, stigmata’s tingling rush turns the purging cassia spokes ripe, ripe music.