-
Frosted tips and white ipod earphones worn necklace wise, saying “08” out loud as a catchphrase
Ginned juice with lemon stock in Got a big wodge, off the books wonga Octopus arms only longer How many berry pies I can finger concurrently How many big fat lies I can tell a bird currently
-
Admix mad old Mick’s axe
I don’t tell lies But I make word pies to hide the truth inside Telling the truth so many times you realize It got a little better every time More rhythm even rhyme When did it become a lie? Is that Grandfather’s axe beside the woodpile? Regardless, the wood will start the fire.
-
A foulbreath cup to induce sleep in meddling owls
Following my corpse down the road, whole tribe You’d have thought it was a triumph for some returning Roman Daughter of Ryan get her to roll one on my phoneback Seafoam secrets those cerise-honed lips hold Lick closed, lick along the skin backs To stick them, hits nice acts like a stimpak To my addled…
-
Hundreds of bong hits per week
Rollstart my lighter The waterless bong with alien heads on doesn’t me any higher Doesn’t stop me trying; do this instead of crying
-
How it feels to use your open veins to produce art, to no avail; read you the thoughts of the greatest failure
Reduced to blogging Was nightly sobbing about no one watching I was pouring every ounce of energy into poem creation And the ultimate result went further than agitation At a lack of any chance to make this lark my occupation Stasis no movement any what way My traducement worsened each day I would soon be…
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Alchemisland 