the last is first behind the door of
contented pretends, and all the
whatnots in the void, all the family
photos ripped with rusty angry scissors
of betrayal and defenseless death.. no
justifications, called his son Justin Case.
Aches and backs beyond the last belief it
was ever rendered slow framerates across
the landscape, all anger and beverage
-induced slutties.. skittles in the shot
corrections, as if the world around has
a way of saying 'sorry' when the fault
lies with but a little bit of bottle body it
never intended to swallow or wallow
whilst watching a swallow swallow spit.
are you listening yet? upset? p-p-pangs
in the lunar plexus?