creation like an all-consuming fire
splintering sense of self until a chest fills with bone shards

aspirating ***** / spitting up blood
if only for the sake of the

tradition

sounds like suffering / smells like delusion
feels like an unexpected weight

and yet it is better than the silence
the silence before / the silence after

                                                          ­                                             is this love?
                                                           ­                                            is this love?
                                                           ­                                            is this love?

                                                          ­             is this it?
                                                             ­          is this it?
                                                             ­          is this it?

From soon all beady my dove and romance
plop buys me a radius of monthly advance
and gives abstract expressionism a chance

we tremble to book so softly their witness
the tiny push bras like nobody's business
collarbone funnybone and studio fitness

how can a lag dinge for a slow digestion
just dreaming low their next suggestion
to be or not so beat, that is the question

walkabout it doesn't make much sense
my verbal byronea about to commence
as two bold eggs sit on a cake and fence

three olding hens sit on the fent and knit
five juvenile retenders rolling out their kit
artly and hostanously thart spliffing in a lit

zuckering freudily Alsberta around the bend
onder mist blontentious wick willet harksend
and befending our liblyhord to the bittery end

if I told you I died 5 times today,
would you believe me?

now,
in the horizon there,
my passion hangs on
a weak branch
stained of copper.

oh,
so timeless is the upset of ruin...
feeding the crows who leave
their feathers upon me,
making me black...