siren song

there is a subcontinental gash in my field of vision. seismically speaking...well, i won't do that. but there is not a tremor strong enough to move that sepulchre out of my heart, which by the way is not a container.

the fermentation process i buoyantly used for you is only resulting in an oil spill, split up by a geometrical morning. slick, volatile shit. and not the colorful, shapeless-ness i had imagined.

fashionable convictions.
parochial euphemisms.

i need a better excuse for being this age.

No comments:

Post a Comment