For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

There is this word  called unruh. Its restlessness measured  by its lack of syllables- which have fed the moths in the dusty closet of another slang- perhaps, the rendering of a mottenfraße. Planted in a foreign flesh, the cants of a novel tongue, dawdle, saumselig, dithering to germinate alleys. Sonant by sonant searching their own memories for that one silbe of lullaby. Scwindende, Lächelden Rauchshriftzeichen im kneipe- nostalgia of laughter in a sidewalk cafe. Whispers that make the body blossom into the palaver of pleasure. But nothing!!! Nichts!!! Only a long screech of loneliness. Mutterseelenallein, which scars like bluterguß, sounds like the name of a flower but is just a bruise.

 Bodies disintegrate into equations on the manifolds of yearning. On coordinates, which are cartesian, geodesics of desires collide and molecules  unfold on the number line: an integer  of oxytocin grapples with a fraction of vassopressin. Sometimes, hands slouch  along the decimals of skin conjuring the silhouette of a word too irrational  to slur into the numberline. At other times, the algebra of an ache is too transcendental to pin it to the geometry of syllables