green fingers and acid-roast varnish
diesel booking it on more than four
ears bleeding on the car door
and someone near by
is going nailgun apeshit
toothy, nosey
smiling inquiries
the salt in the air
in bones
and all the trees are fucking dead
a visible coalescence
still, dreaming atmosphere
silhouetted squid-ink forms
adrift out in the homeland grey

the blood dried on the ceiling
the holes and the spackle
a screaming speaking level
for the tuned pupil
and for the deeper seeker
a set of five alike
dermally-floated vibrance
the violence
the peace
trance-like and quiet
of submittal
beyond the edge
blackness and ecstasy
and why
the fuck
am i still


About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook:
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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