Fiarene-Art

Oblivious to the glances the brutal season dies, a  quandary of the cure. Sex and death, absurdly, cause tension as they rise. Bringing together broken parts, and healing unruly nights, sweating over season the people-catcher wanes. There was a feeling; a height. But the dancing girls remain, and people-catcher's smoke-hands are grasping ever-grasping.

Broken butterflies fell slowly, painting atmospheres the colour of burnt paper, writing words   and more words, all over silences. Some times things moving slowly touch differently and lying upon things that have died, we come alive… And it doesn’t feel like betrayal. And it doesn’t feel like desertion. Kisses like righthand piano notes, breathing like black and white movies, drenched in drama and played s   l   o   w… There are living miseries dying in my rosette irises, breathing surrenders writhing quietly under your quenching stare… [zoom in, close up,] put a frame arou