3/26/18 12:40AM
The air is buttery! I clop cabbages swimmingly! In a broth of beer and meat!
The town is still dead, on Sunday nights, where there are men just waiting to go!
Home cooked meals are sin! In a smoky room with little joy, the air is savory to balance!
Give up ye chains of sociality, and shake off new pictures for every busted heartstring!
Memorialize nothing! I have become one with the corned, and now breath easily, in the brine!
The only yoke left to bear is ancestral, one that has seen many lambs to slaughter!
Each day a new lamb I am, fermenting and dessicated, the deer doesn’t even have a name!
I go through the motions of progress, and each odometer click proof of its wandering!
Quaking foundations on heavy heart springs, new crumbled life for smoother skylines!
The man who cries wickedly, shall only be answered in bird calls! Chirping bleats for fuck all!
There are none in the sky!
Mass droppings!
Saint Peter is in office now!
Can you grasp the gate handles?