The houses on his street were burdened with the beauty of morning dew and its troublesome legality. The beast that had leapt station to station throughout his bedroom—which for that night had nullified the safe instinct of darkness, shriveled its mouth, dying in a sequence of cataclysmic light which were all the butchered prayers said previously. Theraphel lay lugubriously in the drone, for he was charged with the healing curse of anti-immunity to be a conduit for the melody

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people call me a piece of work and i take it as a compliment i’m here for the long haul greasing screens making poems for you i am so glad that you liked my poem and found it relatable that’s all i’m going for here to let you find yourself in part of me my poems are parts of me i remove my parts blot the liver spots half cakey gussy them up for you my poems are sacred and full of holes you should look more closely the beauty is in the dishrag god is what you can and can’t tou

After being fucked beyond hell on my deathday, I decide to cultivate my qi. To keep one's guard down all the time is a childish fantasy. Life is movement. Yes, the world makes everyone crazy. And for reasons we aren't able to comprehend and I reckon aren't supposed to. Grace comes in when it can't possibly be worse to inhabit than one's own imagination. Every moth is the God-Moth. Is the snake wrong for being what it is?