like
carving porcelain, miles to freedom, spinning into twilight. manufactured pain,
driven satire, tugging a big ass horse.
the
block was hot-days, late evenings, the night never disappears.
I’m
having a yacht party, I’m having an illusion, I love like it must be real.
holidays
are crucial, Covid is taking lives, more are killing their winds—might be about
us, or me, or dungeons.
I
was graphed in sorrows, it feels quite normal, I met her, she jiggled me,
jogged me, I jam differently.
a
jukebox of jazz, about more delusions, like each word weighed against us. an
angle, a prophecy, damn near apostasy.
I
was with a tear. I was sleeping, proud to still feel excellence. she might read
it, never feel it, or too much to keep reading it.
Happy
Holidays! what for what it means? turkey has become important. I can’t aside a
Native American!
more
firewater, headed to the castle, been spinning connect the dots lately; quite
decently, nevertheless, actual facts are hard to come by.
I
laced my intuition. we must watch for mistakes, innuendoes, another person’s
eternity.
we
mustn’t offend deeper anguish.
