Thoughtlessly I press up against the dire column of poems that inhabit the books below and to the left of me. It is still the time of day when god desires his words to become lord of drug habits. Killing the insides is a matter for society to attend. With my lovers I retch underneath myself widowing a long armadillo from Georgia. Below and above go the fliers de lis of fame and rotten broken safety. Will is here pounding my words into a lonely freedom cruelly egoistically loaded with sou r prancing graters. The cheese s pouts in a fountain for all to parrot and I bounce off the walls as if made of rubber.
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Quilt this and write of your parents' love for you and all the anger you have contained for face.
Keel nay rope.
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