attempting to augment
i grasp onto the memories of all of you lovers right within this plump book of mine

watching the black wax spin with such control,
my mind is a moses basket

dream about trust
nothing’s real, nothing’s true

three years, a fly lives a day
how attached and fucking foolish

your nest is filled with multiplying ants
fast sharp tangled decisions


mine is a shrine
forget you not


gripping onto the web of desire and time
eventually it breaks

This entry was published on July 16, 2014 at 10:22 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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