The fistula blooms on an appendage
and the fog readily absorbs tumors.
A band of their livelihood stretched between
cholesterol and a makeshift clinical trust.
More fields sliced open, damp compression of looking inside.

�������Life a long sun, a short dark time.
�������Really any music not more than a pause.
�������Open the door open the windows please.

Brains of sand, a bleating of trains
calling a second chance a lying son of a bitch.
She was only the child quiet, mumbling in there
with screams when incident is high.
It all makes better sense as blasphemy

�������Like your new home?
�������I'm a friend of Tatters
�������whom you see has come and gone.

Incensed by the attraction, are you? It's part
of you, that demise in the mirror, that
slab of ice in your pupil, get moving, do something.
This searing of synapses, soggy drips bread
the holes up there, the puddles.