This reality: not the bright-eyed shoot-em-up gallery they promised, not nearly as nice as the dusty menagerie foreseen. Orange, plastic caps land in the doorway of cardboard market stalls.
Thank you for the gift: your stale breath on my pillow after you’ve gone. What cockleburs become sweet comforts in the fresh winter parallel glow.
or you won’t,
those are really your two
I wrote you a letter I could never mean. Trial and error - the survivalist mantra: blessed are the meek. In another era, closed captioning open for grief. Down hung heavier - cycles more vicious than obscene. My rock-tied tantra sunken beneath a murky green.
Twisted and devouring itself, this soul, like Midguard’s serpent, into Deadalus’ shop of horrors - trapped. Fading faster with each death.
High brow, high tower, high people. A grass fed, half-cocked, cockamamie conjecture. 10,000 hours so I know what I’m doing. Shiny metal belt; leather hypersexual. Hints to a treasure like steam wafting to dogshit.
A horrific popularity contest where everyone’s obsessed with saying the last great thing. So, this is what healing looks like? Another scab to contradict unrealistic totems. Gilded, not gold.
She’s the kind of woman you meet on the street and one day regret everything, even though it all went perfectly according to plan.
I get them rolled - a buck a piece from the hobo on the corner. Man’s got taste.
I gave you a secret. No one else has it, so I guess it’s yours now.