the dole, The no life, The future

Within the catacomb of cocoons,
stomach acid waves and dust-winged ships dance
like the slipped disc of a lonely fungi,
while erotic fae blister at gently cradled thoughts.
Lady swallow left and preserved reality.

aging assassination Of A blunt soul

notes torn from the womb of a sweating flute
as umbrella tears blink in disbelief at the Eve
enticed into the pawns sacrifice
to suffice at being the how?
the why? the when did i die?
the why? the lie? the zebras
undo optic harps that tremble in the wind
agrophobic in nature with the shoots
tangled with the air
savouring every tongue, every eye as the Queen's time is nigh
yet anorexic trunks devour plagues and state the obvious;
moulds blind the flowers who become the cast

goliath's sentence In The unthoughtful

throats like voting, untrusted by the crows

who spiral to London. London. London.
her smog engulfs pleasure as neon's light
appauls the shepards and their flock.
with backs turned, they lick glass spiders - stone spawn -
trusting hungry swine to tend to da kine
shapely hips and knives, parasites and brine.

negro immitation with live alarms
to enrich rois faux below deception.
seas of blonde, remote with floating despoil
in its nest of paradise and air.
crows blessings with bandit tendencies in
the circus of dependent metal fleets
who butcher untouched innocence with love.

vvvsss

butterflies die As easy As wood

Deck the halls in silent whispers,
in patch work elegance,
Fore the pinnacle in passion arrives
and floats like concrete.
Her serrated tongue -
a blessing born of ghosts unto this accident.
Wile, to blemish the gloss of our comfortable life,
Our dancing curses,
and an untangible affection towards 'kicking and screaming'.
She peels back the torn flesh to reveal their reflection,
yet the scribes denounce, denounce the frail blind harpies.
Ravishing are they,
of whom she tears the harp from,
while helpless bards tune ticking hearts to standard...
An eternal struggle of promised,
defaced repetition.
And though she thrashes for the atrocities to materialize,
for the summonings to attribute a dynasty to her spilling love,
They craft quills from the purest of unborn innocence
- Drain ink from valves - arteries raped modestly.
Etching soft horrors of an exposed callous,
in ones fanatical birth of ambition;
Parchment drowned in the script of the remains of grace;
an abbreviation of the shimmering moon
- glorious, as the rose bud beckons her fragrance.
Beguiled by the guise of a thief's beliefs,
we pale and stretch skin over shattered bones.

don...

I wish we'd rode the long way home
said the lung to the breath,
as exhalation adorned the sea,
strangling the tear, who in turn
wept;
wept at the amusement of the author,
who, in all his lightshades nightshade
became afraid of one another.
Yet,
diligence opens newly cast apple seeds to empathetic rogues.
An authors decree.

chaos. drunk.

With the voice of an echo the rooks die
tongues settling with the lattitude of
dancing piano teeth and optic nerves
I advise that you do not follow them
in a Morman's blind quest for a gold mine
as the flock and the drummer piss themselves
enticed by a blue neon light and sweat
Years = the bottom of a brown paper bag
at which resides dying coral and dreams
a flies eye and mint a universe dead


but


however


alas the headless roach dies of starvation


but


however


threadbare mechanics of string and wood live
with a purpose to behead daffodils
reinstating the time I had with her
Lady Bloom the pilot of time outside
the window once lost in the mine on stage
Essayists exchange pen with sword and web
as the cocoon cracks and reveals the egg

useless

Systematic plagues raging the flock
with unfeathered wings of devour.
They pulsate with slings and stones
as the mechanics embrace
a hassled whispering
of a knife
to a spine.

"I am not here," calls the maiden Life,
"I did not die," replies the idea.
Cradled by butterfly wings
they rue the stratagem. "Oh",
the mob will recite. With
clues and forks,
blinks and blades.

Scripts will expose genitalia
with meaningless prints of an attempt.
A drowned crow in flight
who bares marks of cluelessness
but tries
too impress.

The story Of hannah opium patrica esther And Her attempt At revival

Woven threads of unbalanced dialect caw
to the clouds, to the dirt. He plays hurt, she plays the flirt and ambition is gestured into
a glass room, filled with spiders controlling
their marionette.
Question one held the answer
of her answer to his attempted suicide.
Answer two robbed his question of answerable
content, from which hawks would glide.
Question three was the answer to the third answer unrelated to his pride.
1. Blind.
2. Lust
3. Fire

Belated letters fell towards the sky as Eve Blossom
and her father, both adorned in webs, spoke.
Frogs bellowed at the oncoming traffic
which caused havoc upon their back street den
before Devour encroached structure.

Frontless.

Illiterate antaganism, moved behind I C posture,
eating nihilism then attempting measured envy.
Tartar enveloped radicalness.

Noise. Walls. Inspirations introduced to the
dot at the end of the traitor.
A never ending spiral of confused, idiotic readers. Bamboozled!
Engaging the water as it carries away each piece
of the jig saw - declaring it nonsense
but the ramblings of a talentless bug.
But, in the end, the silver spoon will choke
each senator as they burn pages of
said misfortune.

-

Empty starvation waves the shade away
as machines undo the thrills that adorn
the yellowless blouse in her rib cage.
Keys choke under the fabrication of
semi erotic screens, bleeding umbrella tears,
yet rotting in the pitch, drinking distortion,
yet stitching themselves to cum stains.
You, he, she, we, they - what?
Young girl in grey. Bitch. Lover.
An unpretentious coward, who's eyes are houses.
Fill up those negro fingers that rape the light,
fore they know the calligraphy in that sack,
they know the hate
they know the sense
they know the attention seeker
they know the beat
they know the now
they know the time grey clouds snore.
Puppet strings will ignite.