Rot like fruit,
in the heat,
and apologise dolefully,
about all the horrible scars on your hands.
all the tongues,
that can saturate emptiness,
to a black and white blender that pulses refrains.
I'm still up,
on the news,
that magnificent melodies,
penetrate salesmen and poets the same.
to the smut,
that delivers your consciousness.
Deep set division lines drawn in the green.
To the truth,
And then laughs at dichotomy.
A perpetual beep in invisible ink.