When the crime is right & the devil wet the nocturnal forrest is a skin and ceremony thin dreams broach reason they poach me with a caustic blooded rash approaching as nippy darts ; visions of shard and coil a metallic eggy rot and pan to the darkness snapping electric
irregular from that darkness spaces between the trees comb form a hyper hectic wealth of flushes a blush burst discharges in the body booming pulse blooming rabidly salivating to a ******* savagery a nature to express forecast within permeable forrest
i have energy amazed limbs daring a dance screamin' hole The Frenzy dog-shaking the head legs flung and planted crushing ferns this hefty simian sway a broadcast challenge invitation a power coward commanding a matching of kinds excitation no longer to be foetal and cowed an aching unmend amended a call is placed the spell is rendered
‘First, the toilet paper panic. Then a cleaning frenzy, followed by a baking bonanza. Now, slow-cooked casseroles seem to be on the menu. It's like the seven stages of grief, …in groceries.’
Economists aren’t generally known for their ability to sustain a metaphor. Woolworth’s CEO Brad Banducci - the exception to the rule - watched the mood of Australians change during the COVID-19 outbreak through the prism of their shopping choices.
A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.
Digital clock: 2:43
A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination. I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.
Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.
As I glare into the sky, Thousand lights shine down on me, Thousand eyes to pierce my veil, Thousand minds to know my tale.
I crave your eyes to look at me, The eyes you placed on sun and moon, To fear my deeds, to fear my hunt, To **** all children you have shunned.
I want you, God, to watch me close, Through wafts of mist, through wafts of blood, To memorize the blade that cut Through skins and organs of your loves.
Before you come, before you close in on me the one who cursed all of your sheep all of their hope i want to see your face once more the mask you wear in minds of priests shatter the lies show me the beast you truly are.
i want you to KNEEL come show me god the FEAR you feel come show the god that LIED to us the one who neglects war and LUST
WHERE ARE YOU TODAY COME HERE AND PLAY
and TRY TO STOP ME stop me! or i will end this child that prays to. a. false. god. WHO ONLY SWAYS BUT DOES NOTHING BUT WATCH ME WAIL IN PAIN AS I BREAK DOWN AND FAIL i'll carve my name into his back and shove the blade into his head he'll scream and call me monster till. he. bleeds. out. but i know the only monster is