DeeryDeerth

disjointed states of fuck you, pay me, praise jesus it's a baby—a slave to the old world order. fox news reporters crave heated debates just so they can play the trump card. see how they fellate old fellows! glory glory to the relished suffering of others—my god saved me, ergo you earned the fire. preach again how to sacrifice isaac; eyes back in your head rolling in the deep- seated hatred of your fellow man, woman, and child; seventy percent of the world reviled, spit on them even as hallelujahs echo from the pulpit. america the ulceric and pitiful; god the enabler of death, discrimination, and communion with ghosts. throw your warehouse full of stones at the innocent. city on a hill dismembering the living while orgasming in a grave: holy holy is the blatant disdain, hold that bible so close it's can't be opened or worse, explained. you know not what you do, or if you do, you're fucking insane.

be vast. shimmer up the portents, passioned. stammer out a new constellation, tragically. let your pulse ink fragments, draw fiction up from your rib cage before exhaling naturally. glimmer when the moon’s shy, pattern unknown fabrics with your magic, keep breaths like gatherings of hearts. steal moments with pageantry, let them be mirrors. lest embers kiss, let go when needed. rip spacetime apart. among all heavenly bodies be this, what none other can attempt or improve: be you.

you’ve turned your eyes before, been down and bent down and burned. i believe that yearning is pure. i believed that your needs were more; drew it on my mirror with charcoal: read it in reverse every morning. in reverse i’ve mourned. undo each seam, sever my arrangements, i’m yours. you motion like the storm before the calm. light is swarming through our palms; though we try i cannot face the mirror anymore.

returning to a ghost, town silent as a wake post-tragedy; i imagine these are the ruins of an era. i can almost hear the methamphetamines' reverberations, and yet still there is silence, an empire of the left-behinds. unquiet corners of former undulations, when the past is sharpened we turn to the future for serenity. what awful moon did bless the inked to exit? did it also spring anew in some dimension? can we balance in this tension, or