Poem -

Skulls and Precious Holes

the subconscious sits daintily.

Skulls and Precious Holes

It was darker outside than it had been in months. 

The world had exploded into a dynamic exchange of lost faces and bloated photogenic snarling blips between the midsts of our brand-name stoicism’s contrite restoration plurality.  And those screams can never reach the full pitch, in between.

Second act: dumb instability and eternally immutable repertoires of kaleidoscoping emanations illustriously combine enzymes of star-child-like relief; we have seen these corpses before; they are cracking underneath the weight of black reverberation that seems to plant only the most base of seed in a stagnating heart.

Blessed be the mourned; appreciative quality is assignment number one.

Cool stacks, then.

On the drive.