I got sunshine on my back,
I used to wear a lot of black,
then I found I like the color
yellow.
I got sunshine in my heart,
if it all ends the way it starts,
I'd just like to say,
"hello",
and if the sun doesn't come out today
I like rainy days better anyways,
and if darkness creeps it's way back in
I'll say, "hello".
I got sunshine in my head,
bright ideas and messages,
I got nowhere, nowhere to go.
I got sunshine in my hands,
answers I don't want or understand,
I guess,
I don't ******* know.
But, if the sun doesn't come out today
I like rainy days better anyways,
and if darkness creeps it's way back in
I'll say, "hello".

Woke up late from a nightmare
disguised as a daydream;
the mediocrity of life burning
at the bottom of my throat
from last night.
Failing organs and trying
to age gracefully
to keep dignity.
Dying every day.
Ten foot sunflower out back
like an anti-depressant that makes you ponder suicides.
Ten foot sunflower  can't find the light
but reaches out like there's something out there.
Ten foot sunflower can't run away, can't take the rain,
can't be desperate or in pain.
Ten foot sunflower has peace of mind through emptiness.
I woke up with canaries out my window
and broken organs in my head.
So, people tell me I talk too much,
and I find it hard to disagree.

You're a botfly in the snot of something
way bigger than you. A nuisance.
If it had hands it'd **** you.
You're hopeless.
You little **** stain,
you driveling dolt,
less than pathetic;
You're gorgeous
and I love you.

Woke up at 4pm today
and remembered I have no dreams
that have flown beyond the cage,
and past the cage there's still
a burning coal mine.
Ten foot sunflower standing out back
trying to be a beacon in the night,
like a blind leader for the dead;
sending them down that river,
paper boats across a sea of lies,
and there is no right direction.
Once you set foot here you are
lost permanently.
No one knows if it even
had a beginning,
or if it'll ever have an end.
Woke up late with  a ten-foot sunflower
at the foot of my bed, harvesting canaries.

The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****.
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?

Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.

A car alarm stopped going off.
It's like being in a dream/nightmare,
seeing all these stupid faces,
seeing only faces you hate,
and after a while all
those faces look
alike.
Pressing palms against my head
and screaming till blood
shoots out of my nose;
I remembered a cold morning,
early enough to be night,
but late enough to be morning,
or maybe it was
early enough to be morning,
and late enough to be night?
I was staring at a grocery cart,
peacefully coexisting
with the parking lot
while I waited for the bus
with not a soul up and out
except myself.
I walked across the street
and kicked it over, and
kicked it a few more times.
I returned to my side of the
street unscathed [victorious].
I may have been late to work,
but I certainly didn't give a ****.
Some lady
coughed up blood
while I rang her out and
I think about suicide
out of habit now.
I'm a ghost that haunts itself,
except which tense is more real,
or did I mean,
who is more valid?

Finally watched Pacific Rim...
Wanted to make Ron Perlman jokes about a dog's ***
looking like Ron Perlman's face.
but then Ron Perlman showed up.
It's like he knows.

Something special is dying here.
I'm going against a pattern,
and even though it ends
in my misfortune,
I can't stop. I won't stop.
How do I draw blood from stones
as a miracle whispered through
the tonsils of demons? Simple.
I am a monument.
A testament of free will gone awry.
I'm a mustache twirling antagonist;
I made Christ weep,
and bound his mother
to the railroad tracks.
I know, I know,
that hero is going to save your day,
and I'll be in chains or
in a bottomless hole somewhere,
but let me ask these victims,
"What would the other monument be,
if not for myself?"

"Affected"
is the only word I have
to describe what you do to me.

Did the effort ever hurt you?
Your fight for me;
it's like a second winter.
You only **** me with soft things.
You only **** me when you laugh and smile.
I hope all the flowers
that find your hands
may die. I hope to be
where the angels are.
God is dead,
and take me with you.
Like second winter.
Like being dead already.
Like the beginning of the end.
You only **** me
with soft things.

Stories on the tips of their tongues,
drool off like dobermans
slobbering over fresh meat.
Eyes like vultures for all the obvious reasons.
I tore my liver out and threw it on the table,
just to test the waters. Went swimmingly.
Better hang in there kid.
Better luck next time.

I dreamt that you died.
I awoke alone.

Everyone seems more eager to
tell you that you're wrong,
-ahem, incorrect,-
than to actually enjoy what
you've said anymore.
So, **** it, tell more lies.
As you stumbled in,
I was sifting through these
texts and letters
because I have a key,
but no lock,
and you can't have all the answers
if there isn't any question.

Some talents will always go to waste.
At the end of the day it's good to feel numb,
sometimes even better than feeling good.
A strange misery can feel so cozy.

A sad confession, but I still think of suicides,
which is a pointless task for even a nihilist.
A chore, really.
Yet here I am awake, without purpose,
like limp lettuce in a banquet; useless.
No career, few desires. Old /young.
Whose to say? I worry. I wish I
was immune to the trepidations of
a life without merit to society,
yet I worry. Don't even know who
I'm disappointing even any more.
Louis Keys said pondering suicide was like
a strip joint; ideas, theories,
actions you want to go through,
but ultimately you get to enjoy
nothing.
Just the idea.
If it's the thought that counts,
I couldn't live with the *******
who'd exploit my death like my life,
or the people who actually cared
having to go through the pain of
wondering why. So this is a
sorry *** confession, and a plea.
Please, ****** me.
For everything I'll never be.
****** me.
For all the **** I've done to others.
****** me.
For my penchant for spreading misery.
****** me.
For my bad skin on my nose, under my eyes.
****** me.
For the **** I'll never get sick of repeating.
****** me.
For the sake letting some people die with dignity,
or in the self interest of respect for the dead
as long as the information is present for
a ******* second in this vacuum.
****** me.
Don't the words just rush out of you too?

You were throwing up uncontrollably into the toilet,
and I cleaned up all the chunks of *****,
although it was mostly water, but bile now.
I've seen more sickness in the past week than I'd care for.
I panicked at the pharmacy while the pharmacist
shadily spoke over various aisles to me.
I sat on the tub while you threw up the medicine he recommended.
I sat there while you laid still at my feet.
I sat by your bed when you could make it back there.
I'm slowly going broke. I'm slowly going insane.
My head is in too many places to sleep next to
you tonight. So I'm here while you sleep.
You keep apologizing, and
I just don't know what to do
to make my head want to go to sleep too.
No rush of words.
No pearls of wisdom.
No moral to these stories.

I'd make art that wasn't the equivalent of processed
microwave food, without the "gourmet" label.
Then again equal validity in creation is only debatable
if you're an ******* who believes any of this has meaning.
If you're taking yourself seriously,
you're going to get ****** up by
the **** end of this joke; Art is more than these
observable qualities of reality. It is beyond us.
However, everything we are is made of the stuff.
We are art. Life is art. Life is meaningless
Art is meaningless.
We are meaningless. You.
You are meaningless as well.
Roll on snare... None of this holds real validity.
Abuse of cymbal.
In this lifetime I want so many things that simply
will not happen. She says my "dreams" are floaty
although I know I won't live to see them.
Life flies by so fast it's a wonder we don't get
tickets. I want light that moves at 40mph
and scorches on impact. Explodes like fireworks.
It should glow; green or blue.
I'd use it to cook these dinners,
burn these notebooks,
**** these mother
******* guitars.

Gods on fire. I wouldn't **** on it's teeth
to put out the flames. I imagine it
started as an Easter Rabbit, a Santa Claus
and grew into a monster.
Outgrew the cage. Outgrew a master.
I don't believe it's real.
I am pretentious and without culture,
illiterate in compassion,
and wear empathy like a merit badge.
It's actually almost sad
to say out loud, but I'm the closest thing
I have to a voice of reason.
Reason?
I was born in a rush, was an accident,
they say childbirth is a miracle,
but it looks like satanic ritual.
My father was pagan, my mother is christian.
She chose my name last minute
[the story I heard was that it was
a street sign].
They expected a girl.
I'm not strong in frame,
not masculine in stature or mind;
People tell me I talk to much
and I find it hard to disagree.
Volumes of words I purge
into kitchen sinks/ wandering eyes/
drifting minds/ and every word
floats ahead of me like an envelope,
yet every letter is empty.
So many definitions, shades of me,
so much **** and sunshine,
and it's all equally weightless.
A trivial guessing game...
What my name should have meant,
should have been,
an idea I could have played metaphor to,
but,
instead this mess is arbitrary.

Masterful sighs and this concert in a
major key, takes a dive and like an addict
coming down it doesn't want to blame itself.
However, hands are bound and that train
cannot roll sideways, and we're gagging
on our tongues to pray to
mustache twirling villains,
"Oh my, God I don't believe in you,
but still, thank heavens it's all over!"
My family may say I have so much to give,
but everyone and everything is just
taking and exploiting the **** out of my life,
menial labor, minimum wage,
carbon-based education and where am I supposed
to hide?
I see the light at the end of the tunnel,
but I'm headed the wrong way.

Wasting space, carbon, and air.
Wanted to tell everyone a story,
but forgot the punchline.
Typically, every story has a punchline,
didn't you know?
Rough crowd or bad joke?
Chest pains, failing organs,
and trying to age "gracefully".
Trying to grow old and die
like a feather gently falling
into a pile of ****;
Swaying in the wind
and wishing for dignity.
We are.
It makes sense, from a distance
in warm light, starlight, bar light.
Pride is really for the young,
but you don't have to be young
to lose your pride. Doesn't matter.
Failing organs and personalities.
**** do we deserve this.
I don't have much faith in my neighbors,
and they probably think I'm a sociopath.
We're all part of a species
that commits genocide and
calls it war.
Wasting space, carbon, and air.

Here we are lined up like ******* ants on pavement,
and I've been alienated before, but
never so collectedly. So familiar.
Here we are making small talk and
suddenly I feel useless, or Caucasian, you know;
how you may be something, but certain times
you may inhale too deeply and
feel it. Maybe I felt it earlier...
That type of feeling where, albeit "familiarity",
if I could be in two places at once,
I still wouldn't be here.
Strangers on my welcome mat,
and I just can't close
the ******* door.
It's probably because I don't live here.
Chit-chat and I have nothing to say,
so I'd say anything just to see if you'd
put me on the outside, treat me
like a stranger, or pretend I really
belong here.
The Welcome Party!;
yet I can already tell I don't belong,
I'm unwelcome, I shouldn't be
here.

If you don't wave flags in people's faces,
they'll never understand what you're about.
Subtlety is not a natural act of human
consciousness; we think in screams,
even if they whisper. Hence;
"Austin Heath Music".
Like a gunshot in the suburbs;
not uncommon, just annoying.
Not uncommon, either, to think
lowly of your species
if it commits war and genocide.
"Austin Heath Music"...
has a certain ring to it, right?

"It's called an Ouroborous",
says the voice,
in the back of her mind in
the front of my skull;
and this coffee taste like cigarettes,
but it makes more sense than
conversation.
Cause for later, like I "need"
an excuse to duck into the
night like a spy. Pity; cardboard boxes
don't work as well in real life.
Privy to the ebb, but avoiding it?
A shape that consumes itself?
A cloud that eats clouds-
A saint to any who would
worship in a mirror.

You didn't say much and I said nothing till it was too late;
a synonym for everything we do. Focused in, and
why the hell would I ever want to play tourist?
I'm an unpatriot and uno American;
this means I'm burdened by a tragic history
and not pretentious enough to believe
old buildings house anything more than
more ****. Older ****. Don't let anyone fool you,
those old white people were real savages.
**** it,
I don't need to see the pope or president,
my love is in my arms.
I don't have to walk this **** planet over,
the world is in my backyard.

Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of all things comes to ******.
Psychic hurricanes and barbarian therapy;
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
but in the end isn't it all the same bleeding?
And you swore they'd never figure out,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they never figure out.
Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of ALL things comes to ******.
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
it's the same bleeding,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore that they would never figure out
and you swore,
they would never figure out.

Don't mistake fire in eye for flame in heart,
iron in build for steel in mind,
wear for worthlessness
or shine for vitality.

It felt like my brain had been in a gyroscope;
my eyes were screaming and getting
****** by lasers, and my body was going
inside out.
I jumped out of bed, and into the bathroom
slamming one hand on the kitchen sink
and holding the door handle with the other,
then purging the food/poison. Four Times.
My head went from a concrete block to a balloon.
Thick chunks of hamburger meat
like a great serpent flowing from my
gut, outward.
I lied down on the floor for a second;
it was the first time I'd vomited since elementary.
Bukowski would have been proud;
I didn't miss the toilet. Of all the things I'm
bad at, and I still purge like a professional.
All the **** I can't do,
yet I didn't miss.

You wear your black tie
like a felony.
You wear your dark sunglasses
like a criminal.
I'm your little wallflower;
hiding in your hideouts,
riding down your highways,
looking for escape and I
don't know where I'm going.
Don't mind where I am.
I suppose I don't know.
Grim Reaper! These pills make life seem sweeter!
Sin eater... could you make me clean again?
Am I still "pertinent" to your heart?
[Am I your little wallflower?]
Am I the one you love?
I don't know where I'm going,
but I don't mind where I am.
I suppose I don't know,
and these dark sunglasses
so I never have to look away;
today is such a perfect day.
Twenty one years and
it's always been the same.

I was in Buffalo for a week;
she gave me a hand-job in my best friend's
guest room, and I was naive and optimistic.
I was younger then, even
younger than I am now.
So I wanted her; but couldn't understand
she did not want me. I bought her ****
for Valentine's day, but failed the test.
So Instead I ate candy I bought
for a stranger
and watched "Hellraiser".
Partly cloudy;
Partly sunshine.

I should "bulk up" on medication before winter hits,
except it's still going to happen.
Winter that is.
And I have no desire to be a
drug induced optimist or less than the
naturally "chemically imbalanced" piece
of garbage that I am.
No lust for the special snowflake zombie,
who staggers in a unique world; infinite
wonders.
I'm smiling as I write this;
but could someone please ask,
"Would you rather die than be happy?".

I took too much aspirin
and when I finally got in place
next to her, comfortably,
my ******* ears were screaming
like they'd just seen a constellation
of invading 8-bit aliens
and I was a blind leader.
The **** part is that the pain
didn't even go away;
was not "relieved".
Well, you driveling dolts, as is;
I see no danger yet, so
I'll take another aspirin.

They asked us to write a poem about death,
or something that summed up life. I don’t know.
I wasn’t running on all cylinders.
We had just crashed a wedding,
with Christmas lights and ukelele music,
and cupcakes. We even joined the circle that formed
around the bride and groom’s dance.
Fell into a group hug.
A gentleman with one eye and a yellow shirt waved us in.
I hope to someday be just as gracious to strangers.
So when we went upstairs and they asked me
to write a death poem, you have to believe I tried.
~
"****.
I hope there’s nothing out there.”
-“Zen Death Poem”by Austin Heath.

If I was a drinker, I’d be dry on the rocks;
if I was an addict, I’d be dead.
I’m not proud enough to call myself a writer
and I barely scrape by with the title “poet”.
It’s not all the same, except it kind of is,
and if it’s all the same to you,
I’d rather be a maniac, or pure ****, with good definitions,
than another ignorant sack of **** with lazy reasoning
and a demeanor leaning towards believing
"I’m above it" really means you are truly above it.
If I was a gambler I’d go all in on my debt,
and wind up missing fingers and half my life
to say you truly believe in the things you say.
If I was a violent man, I’d start more fistfights,
and if I was more of an *******, I’d call you stupid.
However, I’m not the boxer taking the dive,
or the druggie nodding off on the transit,
or the gambler with his mortgage on a pair of jacks,
or the ******* that oppresses someone and plays the victim.
I’m not the writer that made it somewhere big enough
to ever be a has been, or a wash up. I’m a never-was.
To say this is a sad song implies it’s not comfortable.
I’m the *** of my own visions and dreams,
and all my streets and alleys are only seedy
because I wrote them that way.
At least I’m not pretending I’m above it,
while actively participating. Although, **** it,
I guess nobody can tell from a distance.

Like two hearts,
beating hands against
a flame
in the cold.
Singed with warmth,
screaming in joy,
warm outside.
Blue blood.
Exhaling vulgarities
through locked jaws
and a grin.

I’m drowning.
Choking on this ocean...
but when I find air,
I suffocate on that too.

I’m not quite sure, yet everything I do
appears to me as being viciously half-assed
yet sincere.
I write this mid-winter [I guess?] on the RTA
with twenty dollars on me and I don’t want to know
in the bank, with cold feet, both literally and metaphorically.
The future looks decent from a distance in bar light.
As I feign some resemblance of being classy and
collect more sodium on my footwear,
I ponder the passing of an officer who flashed a light
to look at me in the dark on my way from home.
It makes me glad I speak English, where there
are such hard, sharp and unsympathetic undertones
to phrases like, “*******”.
It’s dark on the way through Cleveland.
Try to stay warm.

They say there’s a kingdom in the sky,
where people never grow old,
and they never die, and
that’s why I don’t believe in heaven.
I hope there’s a hell for everyone who
accepts this system. I don’t believe in Jesus,
but if Jesus wept, it was for
Kelly Thomas, or
Leonard Peltier.
I don’t see a good outcome for mankind.
I think we all deserve exactly whats coming for us,
and some people would say that makes me a cynic.
I’d disagree with those people.
Well I don’t believe in these concepts of
"pessimist" and "optimist" either.
I don’t think karma is real either, but
it’s a hell of an idea.

It happened when I left home,
that I came across this fact;
Summer was murdered
and I didn’t care.
Like the never ceasing ticks of a cheap watch,
merciless protesting, and I play the conservative
atop a mountain of ****? [I can’t save anything].
I left home a loser and came back a martyr.
I am vulgarity and purity in the same essence.
I bleed and I congeal. I am the prodigal son
with bleeding extremities and a worn mind.
I’ve seen so very much.

To who gives a ****;
I left all my opportunities behind once.
I’ve broken hearts, many actually,
and I even had mine broken.
I dropped the dice and lost almost
as many times as I’ve won.
I’m surviving though, aren’t I?
I’m not sure whether I should celebrate
in a suit or in a corner somewhere.
I haven’t collected dust.
I haven’t grown moss.
Are you proud of me?
I didn’t have to step on anybody,
because I didn’t want to go anywhere.
Some can argue I’m cheap, or someone
who despises the mediocrity of responsibility.
I think we’ve all dreamt of wandering though,
and I wonder how many of us didn’t have a
choice in the matter. You can tell the
difference in whose looking for
vacation and whose looking
for home.

The actors are outside smoking
and discussing ideas they only know
through fiction. I’m not amused.
I’m in a band that’s falling apart with wit,
and some not-eclectic, or odd,
but still strange type of grace.
There’s a message on the table when I get home.
There’s a piece of me that wants to be jealous.
I’m desperate for an escape.
I’m desperate.

the phenomenon
of life is over rated,
and here is the end.

I’m physically crippled by a childlike sense of optimism
towards a wave of “opportunity”. Convinced I’m young.
I quit my job today, and will get my paycheck for one day
of paid training. He looked in my eyes and said,
"You made a promise for ten days, you should commit to it".
I responded, “The speed of things played into my anxieties and
it made it easy to make those promises”, knowing full well
such a “promise” never took place, and years of guilt trips
from my father made it easier to slither out of those arms.
I will spend my single day of labor on Christmas gifts probably.
"Hindsight is 20/20", except the past only makes sense
in bits and pieces at first. I’m eaten alive by anxieties,
but every bit and piece of me is stronger than the whole idea.
The future is happening all at once,
and I’m desensitized to it.
I don’t want a job.
I don’t want to work.
I don’t want to go to college.
I want to do what I love, and the problem
is that I sincerely love doing nothing. Right to work,
right to sing,
right to starve.

Some people just drink it all away,
and sure you can misfire but we all die sooner or later.
This is a small part of an ongoing stand up routine
that ends in personal self destruction. I’ll continue.
I am my own voice, and I consume that which
over time has become redundant in uselessness.
I stand horizontally between two extremes;
Somewhere between “not quite invincible”
and “rancid with mortality”. Conscious effort,
and I play the fool who reasons with serpents
by keeping no literal distance.
A shape into itself. No thread in the needle’s eye.
A cloud that eats clouds.
A saint to anyone that would worship in a mirror.

I missed the party but not really "missed"
as in I "believe" I would have fun at these things but
I just can't. My hand sways over a house of cards.
My fleeting potential is not realized.
Watching the rain fall from the kitchen sink
and imagining acoustic guitar strums from the 70's.
What a ******* gorgeous cliche.
My heart is sound, my hand waves over this house of cards;
every ******* mistake I can make to hold this in place
is a victory made holy made sainthood.
The veritable laundry list of mistakes I've made,
and the shopping list of **** I'm going to do.
I'd hope I'm appearing as if there is a masterstroke
to all this chaos, except, I'm not even a minor influence.
A gentle wind rolls by.

If you have enemies.

If you live in a constant state of fear,

or you live in fear of state.

One day you wake up and realize

nothing you were promised was delivered

and resent the wealth of the few.

Sleep with the lights on.

If you live in fear of guns because

you don’t fit the status quo.

Sometimes you have fits of anxiety,

and other times you have sudden

jumps in identity and everything

makes sense because you’ve

stopped trying to analyze the chaos.

Start searching again.

Sleep with the lights on.

If you can’t breathe and can’t accept

that this is happening, although ****,

it’s so real, and all the pain feels real,

and the hunger feels real,

and the sickness feels real,

and you may sleep many days at a time to forget.

Sleep with the lights on.

I am on a coastline.

All of my treasure has become

everyone else’s garbage or less.

Today I lost my job.

Everyone lost their job.

Shop closed down.

Froze my *** off

carrying these guitars

back home.

There is an island out in the sea.

I’m all alone there tonight

wondering if it gets colder than this.

It doesn’t make sense why I hate myself so much

from the outside, but try to understand;

everything that supposedly makes one stand out

really just makes them blend in somewhere else.

So I can’t sleep and don’t even want to be awake.

I’m here because of that and a lot of ****

I just can’t say out loud. **** it.

**** everything.

Gonna sleep a little less tonight as usual.

Probably wonder why I’m tired in the morning.

Come on in and break me;

a gentle breeze that places you on the curb.

Leave me alone then.

Winter has released me into the comfort

of a warm, warm grave.

My anxieties are eating me alive.

Like worms;

turning me from flesh

into ****.

My weight is obscure yet light;

my meaninglessness slowly reassured

and I feel

incredible. My death is forever imminent.

Failure is only in my head,

morality is only in my head,

and if this idea sounds insane it’s because

you’re not in my ******* head.

Poisoned by light, irradiated in darkness,

ugly by consent, malnourished in virtue.

I stand on a pedestal and mock myself,

savagely and without regret.

Return to a nameless kingdom!

Return to manic chaos!

Tear yourself in half!

Enter the jaws of this monster

and seek yourself in it’s waste;

or cease to seek at all!