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coroners, or custodians

working was so
opulent or populist
no one can decide which

I orchestrated my own
bloodshed in the
style of allegation
or bootleg salem
I can't decide witch
[I'm sorry] which

I was Dollar Store Dawson's
Creek downstream Jersey
Shore I was up
three fucks and down a
thousand days I was
juice on linoleum I was
shit on topsoil I was
a little left swipe
on her ordinary bruised thumb
I was everything

Jesus of Nazareth
could never be:
a psychedelic spring coronation
caked in sequoia ooze, or
a slobbering silo of cadaverous
[I'm sorry] cavernous torpedoes
aimed at ass play a

walking billboard with its
putrid guts splayed bright
and luminescent
just nothing left to sell

11.16

we the gas guzzlers
our heaters the crucified
I absolutely hate it, all of it
the searing windows
replacing eyes
i am sounds?
yes, I can hear me now
I rake the room's air
like a turn
style
I reason with the dark
cuneiforms in reeling
delight
one, two, twenty years
in exchange
for the peace and solitude
of those wheat field
and wicker basket values
the ones all the soviet texts
seem to turn to
in the end

12.8

and when I'm sparring
when I'm sexuality
when I'm imperfect daffodils
rufilin reason and storefront
sabotage
when I'm breaking the spirit
of daily insta nature reserve
inspo
when I'm skeletons
when I'm ladders when I'm
clinging to hell when the hello
is cerberus when the hug
is styx when I am love
in the deep recesses
of forget I am for
aging new sticks
for the campfire
for camp
and for fire

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