Nuissance

There are bodies manning icebreakers, and bodies frozen in the ice. There are ice bodies whose inner forms, or unknown worlds are fitted for bodies yet to come, and yet there bodies already present, non-popular, illegitimate stains, like morphs from a daze. There are icy days indoors, when bodiless forms, or rooms, pulse with her serenitease. There are completely still and serene forms of ice crushing nothing. There are crushed and uninhabited nothings like bodies whose minds are traveling faster than ever before to festivals, bathrooms, areas of feeding, and places where light reflects, new light, light erected by bodies now crushed under ice, and thinking. There is a light through the ice, and through hovering bodies of ice, too tiny to understand with your body. There are ice men and ice women. There are hollow, deeply green days when too many bodies shred upon the surface of the ice, their hollowness so unknown, so uninhabited. They say that emptiness is uninhabitable, but only emptiness knows these ice chandeliers of bodies in motion, so still, so vaguely like frozen hurricanes of hair, hair morphs grown from a hollow gourd of ice, upon which icebreakers brawl. Brawling godies bode no geod bad, for good gods go badly unto eyes, frozen eyeballs tumble into tufts of snow, no good snow will find its yes while the campaign comes close to the shore. The shore is jagged eyes which cry, tears are bodies, political bodies, like threads, in a perfectly rotten tapestry on which a positive ice is forming over the hollow emptying forms of its uninhabited nothing. The criticism which moves like an icebreaker in the hush is a hollow tree of ice, with vodka for leaves, the vedic ka, codec veers, the veneers sneer towarad the icat punked, you Aten. Endless bodies compose an ice of blank codes, a bindu of ice bends the white noise of a single snow-flake while the yeti yogi tends his dhuni of icebreakers, her white noise of nicely lit heists.