… I always among graves,
roll back pain.
As far back as I can remember,
I feticide storms brimming paradise.
Feeling somewhat a beast
in my exploits.
Fucking for sportcheck,
peach butt conundrum.
Marie Madeline certainly reads from
the contemplative life.
After the scandal
appears a mark of compassion
on our storms’ serene face.
What came first storm for son,
a perfect naivety scene
a highly particularized,
individually defined expertise.
I, everything, come to the man
Celestial trigger hurts
Suffice sacrifice invested
and, now, everything rhythms.
Love dead-lift us up where we belong,
never has jealousy added to character.
Turquoise-eyed monster, unfortunately,
her pools antecede Eden.
I, the torpor, of those long fades,
Melt down circumference,
a new shape to chokehold.
I, here is love,
all we have to do is touch it.
Tapping a dicey loan with
the magic wand of financialization,
a memory sums up several days.
At all costs, we will get there
negated and fucked to smithereens,
but we’ll get there.
In fact, it is the only true thing.
Smells of andouille to politics
show up on Friday schemes.
Forget about babies
From this rent hike sans skirt hike
later, I damned pettiness.
assorted by the state,
of course it all goes down
hellish in a sanitary hand bucket.
I jest, I jest, I jest,
lightly moved the mob’s decision
to off family purity.
All these lacks deserve a lackey,
a fluffy ball tickler.
Techniques the size of the population.
I, everything, coated slime.
While each element of industry
saturates plant sculptures
with Piss Christ’s’ godly gasoline
intermingling freely with the desires.
I, someone to be kind too.
Must not pray too hard
or God will scoop me.
Jellyfish rings a dead beauteous
The neck of capitalism
decides whether living is resistance
or suicide’s only way.
Intimate journals offer sex monopolies.
What is needed, astonishment.
restorative lilacs cast anal foreplay
for the role of one of Three Marys.
Apricot plants apricot tree,
money commodifies money
is how we account simplicities.
Hear us gasp at heaving language
no massive chorus, no big production,
no bitter moon, no meagre diet
to spit on my grave with.