World servant on vacation… not my life at all
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet
of the past or things continued… no miserable material
identifying my sovereign chemistry… I smoke too much
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction
in eternal exercise… in hearts and lines unknown, voids
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged
dense reincarnation
in animal hands instead
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