Episoder
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Now’s the spider’s turn: A facile reduction, up the chelicerae.
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The village hall waits, all the while nothing happens. There is so much pain.
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Manglende episoder?
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Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.
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Definitely, the Pencilman’s virility. Certainly it is.
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With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.
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Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.
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Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?
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Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.
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Alchemical balls: swearing’s not big or clever, even in your head.
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The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".
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Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.
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Dark across the brow, the fields are met by fingers scratching in the dirt.
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The world went to pot, because you did not donate to the fundraiser.
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Pulped sardines on bread, shelter for the yuppie bones, huddled in the hall.
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The decks creak with a litany of transgressions. Judgement mans the helm.
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Worlds as yet untapped, backwash over this charcoal (quantum forest sketch).
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See the Nightingale whirr to where the air is thin. Wait for what will be.
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Don't give me all that "la-di-da-di-da", I'm sick of people like you.
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Retching, I'm pulled back to the frozen underpass, animals snorting.
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Voices from the past scatter through the open door, that you left ajar.
- Vis mere
