Spoke in silhouttes to catch the draft suffocating from the high
a cigarette dropped, than caught between my toes
a never ending happy story adding up to useless appointments to shit
a boring life flown over comfort, subsided on an ending
and cursed into lanes that cross-over anger
The version resides more thoroughly through the slavery that singes upon a crisis.
Afraid, to move.
Saught furnaces to furnish the cold sweats that, engaged
liabilities, and the fucking hell, so, finite, so, intoxicated, too much of the new, took
a belt to beat away the shame, lifted up grown men into little boys-
This just in
segregated by lucidity, perpetual destiny, and manifested hate, limited by the rage
in the order, the turning away, grazing over the typewriter, for a better day, it is the coffin and the cure, the
mediocre and the absurrd, it was the bell and it rang
soddered hands in the obscenities of rain.
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