Previous Entry Share Next Entry
the stinking smell, decaying heritage of nothing really worthless (of us)
is tickling my nose, my throat and lungs; it's
breathing down my neck
here in the garden of grotesque manshifts (raise your hand, laborer!)

plunged into the catch pit of tedious nowadays
no twig at hand, no wig on head (why for?).
i'll cut my hair short...

November 26, 2009


Log in

No account? Create an account