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No Lint In Pocket
Fuck me into tomorrow's decay. With the hideous foreskin, dripping a scent of broken oeuvre prose. Macabre oddities laying waste to my soul. As all fall down meeting the jugular, the finches meet their doom turning the snow a violent shade of pinions. Giving in to the whiskey of death's breath as the least little sounds in my nightmare wakens the Red Coyote to walk the earth. With grit turning to sand and no lint in the pocket. Just lonely embryos, " 'Cause I love you." Leaving little room, for the sealing wax.
Published 28th Mar 2023
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