… 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

who waits.

Celestial trigger hurts

the proceedings.

Suffice sacrifice invested

tender tenderloins

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,

exult shorts.

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

never imagination.

From this rent hike sans skirt hike

later, I damned pettiness.

Inborn sarcophagus

assorted by the state,

no less.

Big whoop,

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,

supportive briefs,

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

fish brigade.

The neck of capitalism

decides whether living is resistance

or suicide’s only way.

Intimate journals offer sex monopolies.

What is needed, astonishment.

Theoretical calculations,

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.