- We welcomed the mourning intruder since he had an interest in things abiding in his woes, slaving away at the sink, odorless, anticipating a cure, from dime chocolate bars. and his skin’s aura, breaking even, and the lights were the rockets red glare reflection on stained silk empty and thirsty for those things that make the bells ring. Thefamiliar clutch. in krags of illusion. Not right here. Over there.
A wanton penalty of disaster, in dregs of reflecting pools, with the tint of thin mud, filled with old boots, as red and resigned voices come over the short wave. This clearest of memories, staving off forgetfulness, total recall imploring a distant planet for more progress in overcoming the penalty. as it revolves on it’s axis. The penalty paid before I was born by five bombers and dead men