Roller Coaster Spine.

every house is somewhat haunted

cradle me and then drop me on my head

I used to be cool

puncture wounds in your greatest-loved book with the worst ending. a trope unraveled, glued back together with annotations.

devourer of buckets filled with dirty words. try not to vomit due to roach-leg tickles as green seeds boil and metaphors live so damn well feasting on stomach lining

The Liar, The Bitch and the Bathrobe

peach juice drips down your tender vines

ring the dinner-bell, i'll trip coming up the back porch. if only my handwriting could figure out curves of your ribs, if only i didn't chew and swallow so much self-esteem as a youth in crisis

hearts burst into repugnant flames as elegance descends the spiral staircase.

capture lovers' quarrel fireflies in milk jug, dim the lights - i know why the sad clown files for unemployment instead of blowing his brains out with a flower shooting water _ in fields of broken antlers, barefoot and needing more from all this

you don't slaughter fictional cows of chocolate milk but there's a certain freedom, pissing in the fountain of youth

tightrope along an up-and-coming failure rate. in ideal yards scattered across a picturesque suburbia, nightcrawlers fool birds into being vegetarians and i fool a lackluster world into thinking that whispers are the most important words ever uttered by mankind