The Grass As Bristly And Stout As

The Windows, The Starving Windows That Drive The Trees Like Nails Into My Heart.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.

I Have Forgiven All The Old Actors For Dying. A New One Comes On With The Same Lines, Like Large White Growths, In His Mouth. The Dancers Come On From The Wings, Perfectly Mated.

My Safe, Safe Psychosis Is Broken. It Was Hard. It Was Made Of Stone. It Covered My Face Like A Mask. But It Has Cracked.

I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault. It’s About Time I Figured Out That I Can’t Ask People To Keep Me Found.