the syndrome of a pendulum fashioned by a bad reputation. praying like an angel to a bomb urinated from a strangled star. love is pain. and pain is legend. i suppose a portion of creation is approaching in a narrative of catastrophe. god orders me to bounce off rock bottom and trump the reverb of a possum grotto on thimble island. the gang believed the iron dreamer would awaken from a paradox of inner limbos creeping through a sleeping puppet who had dreamed this place in a listless sleep. smooth and sodden. crystallized from a bone of bandaids, ever failing to consume the homeless tomb that was set in sundays like an employment militia.

the kings of books were really demons making suits of hair and books of skin. the priests were transmorphic soldiers with hollowed eyes and lips of lightening. the soldiers were circles chasing their tails and annihilating the homes they'd built in hell. they erected shrines to their kings under the direction of puppets and amputated the limbs of their god, consuming it as a sexual talisman. the monuments were slaves and the slaves were monuments betraying their children to the fangs of manifestation. their eyes like garments dangling from chandeliers. betraying their constitution to a lord who fantasized about being a god and yawned.