a narrative in silent screams punctuated by a low thrum

this glasshouse bone prison comprising of the chemical deficiencies that form the pilot of the decaying meat golem spitting sounds that vibrate tiny bones in fine canals filled with stagnant truths gone to lie

outside in a walking contradictory statement an oxymoron of confident anxieties murmuring into beautiful ugliness as the serpent in the shape of a heart tries to hush the rattling tales of woe

the dulled razor’s ledge rusted from disuse in the rampant facial foliage a topical topiary display of so long between kisses he worries his lips have atrophied into dessicated slugs lifelessly keeping words of affection hidden

he gets like this, rambling, either purposefully misusing words or idiotically quixotic enough to charge another goddamned windmill to prove he is not just another moron spouting big words incorrectly


without a doubt

a fool spitting into the wind and warning passerbys that it might be starting to rain and they just stare at him with mouths agape because even if they didn’t get it they want people to think they did for no good reason

a narrative in silent screams punctuated by a low thrum

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