Fractal Sense

rapid sample loops distorted
beyond a recognizable degree.
those jabs piercing straight into the edge of
music. differentiated balloons hide
a white smile and those unseen eyes
but they’re always seeing through the walls.
it tastes like sin. (spikes, spikes, spikes)
the hyperactive podium of a white blood cell
and that multi-colored warping bottomless pit.
ears with a frame rate, decibel counting eyes.
off the charts, melon gave it a ten.
“it must be good.” open break.
pop. last in first out. modulated springboards
microsecond breathing space, sweat-dropping
hothead. I make myself different.
music tastes like sin, or so they say. get out.
185 seconds of standing on spikes.
my talent, my limit, my exhaling shrieks,
my experiential experimental
death-gripped beat.


(inspired by spikes – death grips)


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