we are the Barnabus moth in the flame of our contentious reality.
roiling in sunlight benighted. void harpies champing at the 8bit reservoir
of our discontent, relentless and buffoon. our comedies squat on the curbed rapture
of our indelicate illumination. all buddha huffing glitter often
in a dreaming canary’s pistachio garments
loaded with lost ghosts, that mostly pose as a threat
to skim milk. star funked by a torrent of unfortunate blessings.
gaining the last hill on a star
without a serpent.

all the time.