The bridge crossing so slowly faltering into the past, dashed across the rocks, my hopes. Dope for a new light shining on that fading light, drifting day by day, away, from our grasp and into the fermented everythingness of this. I hope for a day when everyone can invent words and turd with the best of us. But we is stuck, in a doing of our best. Rested souls deploring the rafters for Saturdays new high. Why cry for another day of pain and rage I stage an eviction of my soul from its hold on the cold and entombed, the dead dogs, goats and ex girlfriends are rotting in my soggy bottom boy jeans. But this spleen, this liver, criver cries out in pain for an end date rapidly devouring me in time and shitting me out dead like the rest of them. But I will dutifully fight for the right aspect of this book clubs agenda to switch out of Edgar Allen poe and into love, love, love that one shoving spite despite the scorn, but to quench the kiss upon her lips with gifts of thisness and returning the love she clenches into the cleft of his chest slumbering off soundly for centuries. But the rest of we, trudging on back into that war zone, where dead friends and relatives be-burdon the surgeon general warning on the back of the pack of their cigarettes. This deftness, clefting the stone with bone on bone skull crunching action of french fries and repeats, delete the creep and keep the steeping tea in the gauntlet of souls, why I can't write a song to hit the bong, beyond the steepled in we. Crying, crying for a day in which we can say we are, free, bleeding teething into that good night for the right to choke.
