a touching story of ungrateful velcro skulled boy, with his tored-off face, and the life-sized sacked marionette he'd thought looked an awful lot like him, with his time told and mildewed baby clothes of a business man. jerk, wackoff slumped, and he's tired, sick with bad posturing. one can't hold in. oh hell, there's a king of jungle in him yet. give our young lad middle of america's valise, but spare the gauze, he's losing poet by the gallon. glory, glory, bottom of the quicksand's gonna give him a whole lot less to think about, than change that steel trap perspective would perhaps... ------------------------------------------------------ there's something to the fading of faith. my whole childhood was the broken guitar and my sister's silly yellow blanket. now i carry slender and sexy curved sledge hammers to break the bricks i bought. i should have never went to college, but took a trip to costa rica to cut rainforests to choke myself with. do you know how many times i've thought about writing about the paper i'm writing on? i lost my liquid tongue for the wet pen. i have one mortal wish... i don't even know where i've been... in the basement, hugging the gas main. something's been left out of this game. god, did you remember to render everything? i've seen 1078 sundays and seven borders where the liquid meets land. i've even seen stars, now where the fuck is anti-emptiness? i'm leaking into stoned and severed existence. i've been consumed by my own breath.
