Category: Writing
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jimson trumpet
why is my room getting smaller when the wind wants nothing to do with me cuz i’m running out of wood because i lost a fight to a smaller tree my hands are made of rubber and my arms are made of skin I took out all my muscles because they were trying to keep…
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The Skeleton
We got ourselves here a good world to die in a deep fried sky a chemical war of attrition and radiant horses Torn apart the men that unbroke them Men with metal in their heads that pick up radio Tele-murmurs broke bare by the sand as love fills the air in April Something sinister and…
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MINDHEAD, Pt. I
Pocket and Jules felt too old; the night had gone on too long in this dreadful, half-finished venue. We all felt depleted as high-schoolers moaned in bizarre unison which at points reached harmonic barber-pole effects of a constantly-seeming ascention in pitch… Thousands of sticks of incense were burning, but the bashed-out window and the cold…
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The Final Ritual
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2: Fourty Two (Old + New)
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An Old, Weird Poem I Found
the sky ripped like it didnt deserve anything more than that – one – word ripped I look @ the grass and it is blacker than dead blacker than the bedroom you stood in once with no windows no lights and a man standing too close to the door with a fake little candle in…