Poor Thing. To Die And Never See

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

Once Upon A Time We Were All Born, Popped Out Like Jelly Rolls Forgetting Our Fishdom, The Pleasuring Seas, The Country Of Comfort, Spanked Into The Oxygens Of Death.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

My Heart Is On A Budget. It Keeps Me On The Brink.

It Doesn't Matter Who My Father Was; It Matters Who I Remember He Was.