What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it ***** the meaning away?
The past ushers futures inside that my parents
made, and their parents made, and their parents,
it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n,
i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n,
into a
worldoftrash.
Happy. Happy. Happy.
My body will carry use
once I am dead. I
think I taste the dirt.
Happiness in head.