they really do know how to shove something up your ass like
webwomb’s not the maker of me. came into it as falling is done. down, only always
finally, without knowing it was coming, he got to die. it was great. like a birthday party clown, he was equally the center
lie still. be quiet. please understand what happens so, next time
drry awfl drd sys thngs tk t lng & y bttr hrry lst y
does a king come ready– made, or doesn’t he emerge from a prince once a frog, and aren’t you
oh, and how it gets you these bastard assumptions, one or two commonalities
like bell bottoms or disco but we need it to think i’m dead
here in the middle of the bottom of the lie how obvious
I love how you talk Down to everyone In your poems Which, unlike fiction Are not covered
I understand the tattoo now “VERITAS” on your wrist, only there because it is entirely absent everywhere else.
Fieldwizards and firetops. Wobblybirds on snowflowers. Chilled milk and chowder for the little prince. Mothercake for mumbled thanks.
reflecting on the moment before, would be useful only were it not already perfect.
simply knowing you’re in a maze doesn’t get you out, but the fact is the foundation
so, come on then, brilliant one, see, i’ve been waiting for you with eyes