words within a grand mockery
Dearest deep panic machine, god isn’t for the detail-oriented. The first loneliness is the most fun. We say melancholy while smoking in a cemetery because no one actually died here. Dies. I flapped my arms while painting and saw the angel of animatronic suicide. Death and trash. The far loneliness of being present. Of unchecked repetitions. In a poem about my arm a star became jealous of a cigarette burn.
kingsoftrain 
Leave a comment