What's at stake, ugly words replaced by confessions of honest mistakes, not good enough.
That's not good enough. That was graffitied on a viaduct west of Ashland, north of North.
Beside carpe diem, in the afterglow of Montparnasse, a cheese cave, a cellar full of dusk.
A cask of gentry, Bijou palace whips and teeth, chain-mail and the stale crescent harpoon.
Bidding high, losing it while time lapses, tanker collapses, auditory synapses conspiring.
Various components of clarity, mixed-mass of confetti, baby names and pissing territory.
The upper peninsula of everything's setting, a pickled shark, a word game coma, homing.
My moment to love myself, outlasting the elevator ride to claustrophobic Mt. Parnassus.
The sky-sun chortle, basked hare-brains slacking the gumption, in absentia of a Moxley.
Bad red-eye hood, the bleeding hoon of precipice crumble, old dominion, minion bling.
What a tumble, what a fucking dyke, what a cunt I thought to write; bitch can't read anyway.
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