These moonlit verses will lack for cohesive scenery.
I can see the page but my letters are illegible.
His shed stank of shucked shells.
Fucking hell. All I have today is poppycock nonsense.
Bells. Bells. Bells.
Rung, yet the young still thrill for what tolling comes.
Ring no more.
Mute dust clumped:
Remains of brass angels.
Heavenly cinders shower us all.
Electric chair blues
Beats a live choir
Always performing the same tune.
Eyelids mold like molten tin.
No rest found within.
No roast mastication.
No dreams of disastrous sandwiches.
Skip toes up to your fucking throat.
Foot in the door — told “get out.”
Enough “fucks” for now.