T R S 6d
Caverned in a cage, a cave
were mountains of stable shelf food along with baskets.
Baskets filled with food and horrid stories buried among the bits.
That shrapnel, that ****, that little bit of metal that finds a way.
Finds a way to stay lodged in my spinal column.
Laudnaumn is a painkiller
a time spent life spiller that'll take upon you strife and the life of a soldier most totally taken, spaken and spat, with lack of fine skills,
no skin to donate, no porridge to impregnate my brittle bitter being.
Now i'm saught after, and it's now that I'm seeing.
T R S 6d
Patterned after the shapes she had built apart on my broken blanket.
Thanklessness is a fuel cabin held hostage.
Pottage is porrige in brittle built cabin cages.
Assuaged by buildings who have gas and hate as weapons.
Sectioned in air, I reckon bullets and **** will will hatred.
Stated in being
With gloss eyes seing
Saying
Praying
and bitter built being.
T R S 7d
Ever so often, someone sent food, which was good.
My *** was it good, so really really good.

Out of every coffin was a sort of reprieve because of that
heap of uneaten rations from the dead who have died.

Died
Died they did.
And now
from they're dead eye's I've hidden my guilt and ridden my gut of the fat that had enacted a deal on the pit of my gullet that'd made me so sorry. To hate all the glory and feel all a sudden so sullen, so sorry, I'm not buying glory.

My Lord makes me hate killers.
Which makes me hate me.
Vinegar is wine in my eyeballs.
It's how the Lord makes me see.
T R S 7d
Sifted through a scouring pad
I had ten pounds of hellbent powder
and a shower of hellhole bits.
Bits that lit when dawn will light the rest of life
T R S 7d
Regression is the precedent I've since set for myself
Upended on the shelf was an unfortold, frenetic, belt-pelted being.
So after the cavity in my dominant eye has collapsed
after the day of shooting and rapture has wrapped up
Enough of it has shoved itself up into the upended titled bent being
whose naive native notions can only see the chemical show
of wriggles and lines that've dissolved in the dealing of
chemical knots wrought for that rapture
It's a shot taken in, in little apeture notions
It's showmanship commotion,
Locomotion in sinful, fruit-built, salt-ridden,
and laughter-built ration packs.
T R S 7d
Somewhere, while out in the world
Standing, I stood and heard word of a bird
Who had heard of me
Who I had met before long ago
Way back when then is when she'd decided to live with me,
live by me,
and love me
Pragmatically acting on my behalf often for lack of my proper judgement
T R S 7d
You have to step
step
step in lock step
stepping in lock step
until the chief says that you're free
And then that's when you give what's left
Right
Right now you've lost your mind.
Right
Right, right now it's time to jockey for position
Quiet
Listen
Listen for the echoes of your mission.
Hard spots
don't make noise
Softness is when our boys smell blood
Now I understand
And now I'm understood.
Next page