The man in the box with swore teeth empties the bins of consumption in traces of delirium, psychosis, bewildered in black features, hollow structures, the howl from the hum of nuclear-powered Burger King sign.
Sea-shell beat the drums, pulls down the night sky, using telepathic strings attached by thin necks, swollen jugulars that fold over and keep in place my dream-states.
Detroit scars send silver stars, down streams and rivers of her cheek, buried in the center of a tear, rolls backwards down my spine.
The tightest fit I could imagine—white blood cells scream in metal-vocalizations, for milk stains on clammy palms, blood spots that dance in the microstructures of liquids.
Marijuana smoke fights back, hurls paint and assorted buttons, emptying the fill, which reaches and spills over. Bubbles on my tongue pulse in coordinated pops, releasing nitroglycerin and light reflections.
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