This. The button. The parent of all ills.
Connected and fed by rampant mouths.
Or by holes made by war.

This motion made perfect in
a court of infants on ruins
subjects

paper star and starlet
no time in a blaze
for the movie of your minute

Isaac Dust
Born from the cold binary dust and
with no song or sigh returning to dust

He just has daughters and its a blow to
his pride since heirs inherit the
mortal remains and titles

But this isn't that kind of song
not now not when your stood trying
the locked box of fatherhood

He returns to the fire just to escape
a capitol offense flowing like morning
youth yawning your birth

Isaac remains still as dirt
guilty as bone and blood
assembled for horror and nuance

My life a cloud of
Blood and pity

All the most beautiful
Words I will say to
Myself in quiet rooms

But to you
Nothing but the
Awkward garbage
My mouth finds

I stretch my mortal
Membrane into time
I have not bought

One lash stomps
A false move and
Harvests a mania

Broken falls ****
That let me fall I
Do well from below

she says my mom thinks she is young
with etiquette that stems from a long
birth against being watched

long drives in the city to the country

sleeping in the car with empty stomachs
painting the next town on our teeth
like orphans of privilege

giving birth against books
perfect time given the nature of
all orbiting satellites

a new job in a new city

while the purpose of not being
your Father sparkles like a new penny

the girls are there
the boys will fight
the weather is right

what is it like
to watch myself engage
the living land

every time I walked I
did it like a professional
of myself

and to step out of that
is the other time
where I count my

minutes and seconds

bat flies out of the night into
my headlights
loops in draculan arc

it is 4 o clock in the
dark in the maze where my
heart knows no clock

the radio is singing a lesson in
lost love where the wires
buzz and intersect

animal notes in the streets

metal on the field of my tongue
hijacks your signal
like a surprise flight of bat

the end of Henry Miller paragraphs
blow out the *** end of my pop song
which I cling to

however this thing has expired
and the treasure is sunk expertly
an ecstatic kinging

brings me what the devil decides
because I want June at all times
Now and more