picture this,
o sons of judah:
arctic shallows, a
shellbeached leviathan cordially extending
an invitation to this
everfast slowdance of heart
throb lust in the
inkwell satisfaction of knowing you bleed
india blue & bone china and the moths that got
into the tent will swallow the naphtha in time;

there are parts of you that
are never clean.
yeah isn’t that
wonderful

? mark the few drops of
tequila left & a
heavy sunrise in your
swankissed beechwood
heart;

*there are parts of you that
will not be released.