by Enzo Tacadao

Sore eyes kill the mammals.
Things turn to brighter than bright.

Cerebrum spinning in ecstatic fashion,
clouds I can hold. Seconds in perpetuity.
Blank walls are my bitch, they’re colorful.

Better than Minolta. Way better.
Point and shoot. I see, then voila…dance in the summer sky.

This is the sky? Why?
I can taste the melodious harmony of the lute of my angels.
Light me up. Pass it to the right.

by Lorenzo Tacadao / Enzo Tacadao