Monday, March 21, 2016

Not to elaborate on a thrill

But to teach the monotonous silhouette of morals that it does not matter, that all gates open on one witness who is the same witness   and the grapes beg you to eat them before they rot in the symmetry of obedience     in their distracted  beauty   which turns into the part of you opening     some   logo  window      Imma paint my face    imma paint   myself        the  salt   in the way  could light up a room      the song  on the radio   could  bloom  into  daddy