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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.
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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…
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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
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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…
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The tortured year-long minutes of a soldsoul sadsack poem scribbler
If you suck me I’ll take the ban away If you’re still wrecking head Keep away that span the document dictates Once they’ve had a taste they become deranged Monkey’s paw arranged it, how I got it? Listen I’m saying it shameless Bled at the tip of the sabre Wanted stuff so I got a…
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Alchemisland 