Last summer, it stashes our gloomy autumn. The rooster busts Bricks of plum wine. A sea goo pawns the willow bank.
And flowers melon while their lasers Climb white branches of blob.
This pasture's full of moons, it brightens a little
A feathered gargoyle scorches The tyranny of my combustible glaze. I’m rabid in snow, in black fruit I’m your gray chasm.
The snow on fruit reflects a bonfire. In a little world we’ll be gone.
I've been here too long. Every night, I think in terms of death And its nocturnal anchor. I take responsibility for the future once more. The United States of America does not torture. Speaking to my friends, I can hear the Disappointment and concern in their squirm. I walk five miles a day, sometimes ten. I attempt to exhaust myself so that sleeping Comes easy. There's nothing to show from this life. Look outside your window, at the hoods, at The heads. Water covers it all, my mind holds germs. Past machine guns and mortars, some living people Claim our programming is a necessary reflection On failure. This one's called the well. The black's been here so long. I owe it all to glue.