[Fig]

you said photographs were the purest art-
to capture untethered human emotive conviction,
and showed me restaurant scenes- 'open incisions'-
The photographer, ensconced in oceans of pixels,
is the purity seeked. Motion is fixed for his or her Copernican leap.

This must be split eight. Wonderful. I love splitilydiddily. Open incisions was good man. So was oceans of pixels. I love that type of imagery shit.

But the viewer's de jure devotion is decomposure of scene-
what don't you see on display in this quieting view?

Seventh-year figure, whitening jeans at the fray, Hermione shoes.
swirling the dregs of her tea without divining the truth.
Visine induced. Nikon on strap, unprepared, cornered in booth-
Watson the satellite, saddened by bygones, a tile-worn emeritus sleuth.
I sensed the forensics just drip. Gushing arrogant clues.
I caught our summer mosaic in the reflection's affair...

These last two bars were dope. Didn't catch on to the hermoines shoes bit. Why won't you let me in split. Why.

The glassy tablet a megaphone. Rosetta Stone Air.
twenty characters to echo- rote silken robe for networking flairs.
captioning stalactites to adjective life- its amenities bare,
translating pictures to blurbs with maddening slight-
cuz I was the distraction of night. Lyrical labyrinth type.
thematics would strike, in your lab, the photogenician at ease.
you would listen to soul, ab initio, negatives afloat in an infrared bleed

I'm getting the sense that your using the process of taking a picture as allegory for love. Dope. There was some vocab here that was too dense for me to pile through. Negatives afloat in an infrared bleed. Yes dude.

she joked I was haunted by ghosts. American slew.
Engorged in oblivion. Kerouac. Whitman. Bloo Q. Kazoo.
Morrison's indian. Cobain, sky a typeset cobaltic,
cloud-cover stardust in bloom, reining in acidic cathodics,

This part lost me man. Saw some name drops. Recognized two of them. You're technically sound though, and that's always good.

Sitting cathartic. Carcinogen fumes we could puff.
Aware that my tonal grasp was approximately, too not enough.
Shifty and grayscale. Prolix, olden hat since... daguerreotypes, dude.
The finer points she filtered. White noises, polarized, pilfered.
Consumed like a slanted haiku, encoded tags coined to animamatrix.
Slowclap goodbye. Reunions are prone to standing room only ovations.
Paging old hand-framed photographs. Her descriptions still empty,
and I am not convinced of anything...
Pacing past the columned oak, her frozen lashes unblinking-
and I've got my smile flash closed, as I failed to fashion a greeting-
I've got a picture in mind of you grasping at speech,
and I dont know what I'm thinking

This was a damn good ending sir. Using all that vocabulary that is directly relating to photography is a stylistic choice that I can respect, even if that means I'm getting a fragmented view. More open Mic drops split please and thanks.