i’ll go. @
dead man
bellowing. get a load of dementia’s exposure
developing. throwing salt, to the antithesis. slowly
over the anesthetist’s shoulder. syringes leave hickeys
1-on-1 with a gypsy. there’s whiskey in my whiskey
the fact of the matter is grizzly. bare with me, here
I swear by polar bears, that he’s such a bipolar. swear
poetic decay, is the most sensual way to erupt, tonic
say hello to my little friend, my scarred face tells one hell of a love sonnet
my captcha read “the end is near”, so i typed in ink “posthumous”
registered to a site about fear; except with a hint of post-modernist
go