This is an exquisite corpse game played between Shangyang Fang and Jiaoyang Li. In the time of boredom, we each blind write 7 lines of nonsense and intersect them into this sonnet.
Is a hollow ceiling a hollow or a ceiling?
The hat on your head is yet another face.
Whose tongue tumbles in my imperceptible pond?
Why bring an umbrella if you own a subway?
The overdose of yesterday perplexes me
for all I want is to bury my lips in your crotch
but hedgehogs, that's the whole point.
The mushroom isn’t an umbrella zoomed.
Your sentry, my clematis, the unquenchable.
The whole world is yellowed by one lamplight--
what is inside what is behind two of us--
yet the lamplight is immune to its infectious hue.
In the solstice of pestilence, a ship with its shore, abreast.
How could I separate evenings from the color of your arm?
Shangyang Fang is a bowl of succulent grapes burning in Austin.
Jiaoyang Li is a freelance cupcake melt between New York City and New Jersey.