IN DA CLUB

I was told an angel came

And bowled my game.

I pick noses from the sky.

Cold town

Drums and menstrual cycles.

I keep love to myself.

I've got no words, wait, more for you.

Electric depression.

Electric cock.

My art turns known.

Menstrual waltzes.

They lens-style me.

RC saw the light.

RC is always wrong.

That's the way I'll treat my love when it is answered.

Living rock, large order.

Large living rock order.

Chattering informer.

Slow focused answer.

SALAD BOWL BLOOD

Salad bowl blood

In a suitcase

Of the deaf

A ventilator membrane

Allows the voices in

There the drama

Becomes true horticulture

I'm an old war veteran

Who started out white

Oh how the bones are apples

It's an old 

Deaf salad bowl drama

LAST DAY OF THE YEAR

The souls of wild animals sweet and sour 

Through my eyes for air.

It's quietly pointless.

I yawn at the river.

I piss livers, palm down.

Thousands of tires legalize a thousand hours.

Either I fight or inhale ice.

A curvy amateur in a monk's robe

Matches my traps from her absence.

Hate hate hate hate.

The ancient ruins detail used water bottle lipstick.

The plants punt rubber bald heads.

The river pisses eyes for ceilings.

Mountains and forests come back into the body of their owner.

Life's greatest fool, my purifier.

Street Musician, Laos, 01/29/14