Slumped into the late linen sniff scent of stiff cigarette burned into the chair Hey, she used to be there per fumigation embalmed momentary into the chair
The ceiling is shifting like little snakes whisky balm in a sweating glass I haven't touched it, it's watering down down into water and alco-seltzer to ease my grumbling soul
Those snakes, turning and writhing in the ceiling where is she? I smell her forked tongue
You can't smoke inside anymore not even in the old buildings already full tar roof, tar boots, tar toys in the evening booth french fries dipped in milkshake sprinkled with salt and glucose
mmm good for the muscles and the throat
she loved doing that kind of stuff, weirdly enough.
sweat on my fingers breathing heavy studying the snakes with the bright eye of a Darwinian belief
they will die, I will die, but not before we fulfill our seething purpose
they lost their wings? Is that why the Chinese and the Greeks and the Norse and the Volks and the Rabbinicals claimed punishment was befit a creature so little, yet so dangerous
(Monkey in the tree no snake will eat me)
to be swallowed whole and digested born to die, fed to be born ouroboros
slithering her **** tail into the mouth of heaven for a second then shuttled out the door
it is dark as onyx in the night the stars shine like scales above searching for the right snake to emanate and create new life for once