One more day until my midweekend. Feeling alright, if spread a little thin. Hoping to consolidate some projects over the time off.
Voted out of the 27 Club
Polishing my face ruddy - whistleblower.
Shrill preening about the octagon,
wolfen savant composed entirely
of others' fears. Tiny-megaphone
englonging her voice across
the middle quadrants of the
republic, cut short by the
triumph of the ambulance
siren, luring rabid, pale
horses into the caned,
feisty death of dog food, rebirth
forever in testament to man's best friend.
We feed death to the dogs for a fiddle
scribble or our souls.
No comments:
Post a Comment