Our Looks

We thought the sick would move, sprout our desires, and heal our morbid fixations, we built networks to contain, but still the spread did not quell our fantasies. Once we looked upon the sores, there could be no taste, which could cure our longings. Believed to be the interventions, the candied copies of our formulas, written into screenplays, which we rehearsed and re-taped over repetitively into being able to capture the exact moment of screeching, when the life yarns snapped, covered in welts, bruised into mundane matter.