infinite loop

dying around me

beautiful objects

drive

impressions of kevin bacon

rumsfeld

Glean Trout

Glean Trou

for your dream voice, exploited primal fear

synthetic over time, neutralized capture

constructed allegorical, boring oxygen whirl

Two by two, we marched to the bossa nova

tiny revolution,  absorbing the very aesthetic

go to the top and back down, all the real fun

hideaway behaviors, loosened wrath

unfit for the socialite, we actors and insurgents

coming emissions, under her dress

Chesterfield broken crosses

vehemently venomous, two teeth missing, small soul hate

heavy shoulders, a fancy little smile

transfigured attempt, that spoke of his flippancy

still waiting for the artificial, infiltrate and remember

I am dead, like a diminutive Jesus

Cold Beef

Cold Beef

Weapon wants , she purchased

to drill herself deeper/ a bit of a connection

into the bedrock, ORTHOGRAPHIC

a sizable amount of dynamite

rough-shod replica

contraception

on, scrubbing the love out of the human.

about Spain.

room service,

people are dying.

We all die for the wrong things.

It is the love for the metamorphosis.

You took the creature down

and coiled it around your neck,

still passing me the encrypted note.

pacing the tiny apartment with subpar footwear.

I can see a path being worn in the thin bare carpet.

a product of this digital age.

I pulled out the Yeats and found you at the door stoop;

you were pretending to be real –

fresh from the cement mall.

I want the hand of the maker to be seen.

Nubile Bourgeoisie

Nubile Bourgeoisie

they have saucers in their eyes, wiping blood

smoking opium, communist manifesto

you wait, into the void of desperation, blood, uterus brain

piano stool, as Tonya’s ass, to defend, needing a fix, orbital dance

leaves you, the walls give in, as this life swallows, from banging

in the rear of the saloon, hanging over the beam, this fake democracy

you whole, to the butcher, as far as Chicago

sheer lunacy, skeletons tightly packed, laughing eyes

the mossy Hamburg , in her closet, snouted brutes, of the Holy Ghost

with beer trumpets and bent needles, her mother’s muff

for her pickled meats, to know that I was dead

A Note on Pathos

Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile

a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more

eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate

incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood

you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows

no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic

the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people

and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda

struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes

this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls

you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,

crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul

and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face

by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep

with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold

the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures

you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness

or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame

you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you

that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep

or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.

LVBTHRPL

LVJNBRWS

abdalaa2

Evocatio

002 babalon

17

krst bgstd