WINE AND GATES
Neon Says How Evil Lives For An Olive, Bub
stress in the fabric
of space, time and the need of a father
the logic it took, in the form of a sick
place to mention the passion of wishes in the rather
pony, pennies and the end of the world
we notice your coffee cant, the thought of original sin...
is a passion in the stones of marrying the hurt...
kindred
places of torment, if not tortured norms
and the aching press of complete hysteria, for the better he'll
which in titan orders to the nose, is a legend of worms
the bolt in the blue and the cant of a knowing winters of bells?
your tattoo...
the patience of ink over the common choices in the mud, if not murk
is a trace of opium in the wash, a place to harbor new should
is for the conditions of silver bells, where your anything but a tongues work
what does this have to john, Jacob, oppenheimer smith?
in the rage we annually merit as a candle in the rain, we see a mercy in those
candles of a faux liberty know the pride of noses kissed...
blankly staring at a snowball and the heathen of a door, politics
good and vexing, the many enthuse the soddenness of the few, cherries
are a sincere attempt at kin... but a fig knows you for the horizon
pragmatism, and the scent of heather for a belladonna smile, the fairies
you guessed it, the road to days found victory in the blindness of a dragon
do you remember a meat in the mouth of father new year?
is dante's inferno the rather curious promise to kick the habit of bright?
forned to death, is regret the place of a conscience formed in a bottle of your ear?
was the place of a parody of sin, the only way to assure the guidance of a hair of spite?
your eyes, my naivete
the water in our tears, formed in the naked dance of sleep if the myths of courage
worth your gargoyle, if not your throat for the moment, we she'll the clever
your hath, my hate of a silent whistle in the dough, the future of your reign?
of space, time and the need of a father
the logic it took, in the form of a sick
place to mention the passion of wishes in the rather
pony, pennies and the end of the world
we notice your coffee cant, the thought of original sin...
is a passion in the stones of marrying the hurt...
kindred
places of torment, if not tortured norms
and the aching press of complete hysteria, for the better he'll
which in titan orders to the nose, is a legend of worms
the bolt in the blue and the cant of a knowing winters of bells?
your tattoo...
the patience of ink over the common choices in the mud, if not murk
is a trace of opium in the wash, a place to harbor new should
is for the conditions of silver bells, where your anything but a tongues work
what does this have to john, Jacob, oppenheimer smith?
in the rage we annually merit as a candle in the rain, we see a mercy in those
candles of a faux liberty know the pride of noses kissed...
blankly staring at a snowball and the heathen of a door, politics
good and vexing, the many enthuse the soddenness of the few, cherries
are a sincere attempt at kin... but a fig knows you for the horizon
pragmatism, and the scent of heather for a belladonna smile, the fairies
you guessed it, the road to days found victory in the blindness of a dragon
do you remember a meat in the mouth of father new year?
is dante's inferno the rather curious promise to kick the habit of bright?
forned to death, is regret the place of a conscience formed in a bottle of your ear?
was the place of a parody of sin, the only way to assure the guidance of a hair of spite?
your eyes, my naivete
the water in our tears, formed in the naked dance of sleep if the myths of courage
worth your gargoyle, if not your throat for the moment, we she'll the clever
your hath, my hate of a silent whistle in the dough, the future of your reign?
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Neon Says How Evil Lives For An Olive, Bub
Neon Says How Evil Lives For An Olive, Bub
