words always castrating, vials of estrus bile, dripping deceptively blistered from
unknown thunder, engagements
Leaving the GPS where even the desert fathers
would be lost for over 30 days and nights wondering where all the hissing came from;
nights of too many black dahlias
and not enough promise of spring bouquets,
can the dancers around the maypole
dress your wounds and take away your Mack 10
mouth;
Your madness has reached around the four corners
and tasted your latest batch
of hops and herbs, a kettle stirred by
the blackest mamba with so many forks
in its weathered and veined tail,
listen
psychopathic liars
dedicated to Crystal and Ch/Kristine and Robert Cloud and Mark Kachel (very evil people)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment