I know you like being hunted
but when it's real you act stunted...

I've had enough of you. Enough nothing. I guess at...

Don't do drugs, kids. They make you write away...
In a splintered cell of rhythm-snorting cynics...

Latchkey chameleons throbbing with censure,
rapt with blurs and river-burning kraken smirks...

Splitting light and tentacles of grasping music,
oversight out of mind...

stitched face glitched faith
screaming felcher anthems...

Verdant patterns reeling
and feeling like a tree...

God, the fevered children,
narcoleptic kleptomanics...

Floating to the sun
and said and done...

All the haunting hurts less
when I know where you are...

paralipses stole her scent from me
freckled and white knuckled, numbly...

The unorthodox
Plier can a be shadow...