I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault.

Let God Be Some Tribal Female Who Is Known But Forbidden.

Yet Love Enters My Blood Like An I.v., Dripping In Its Little White Moments.

Why Are All These Dolls Falling Out Of The Sky? Was There A Father? Or Have The Planets Cut Holes In Their Nets And Let Our Childhood Out, Or Are We The Dolls Themselves, Born But Never Fed?

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

Yes I Try To Kill Myself In Small Amounts, An Innocuous Occupation. Actually I'm Hung Up On It.