The flight of a shore caresses the genitals of a ladder.
Its vulture mouths are full of breathing sand.
This is the first business that you get to coming off the alien
That paints with piss and listens through cracks in noise.
Time after time, I’ve been caught without my blood.
I became this radio screaming blisters at the sun
Two philosophers and a pile of excrement lunge.
The shapes of men were fed with tubes.
They gave women the slimming effect of black
And turned each day from sewage into fog.
Sign up for the digital edition.
The coma’s a Xerox of waiting.
Fries on stars, the icy along.
No way now to kiss away the grave.
Death installs itself around the mouth.
I never liked that bank when I checked into it years ago.
I saw lice in the metal of its fiction.
Around death I suck my own dick for 2011.
Every other free hole is rotted out.
A prison of good note and credit licks like a person
Weary of their tongue made of spiders.