Front Door.
It’s locked.
It’s locked.
I think.
It’s locked.
Knock Knock.
We’re in
The Pink.
The Lights.
Bark Bark.
They’re on.
They’re off.
They’re on.
King Kong.
The Lights.
Ping Pong.
The Stove.
Dear Friend.
We’re at
The End.
It’s on.
It’s off.
Let’s check.
Zoloft.
Metal.
Ticking.
Heat.
Cherry Red.
They’ll find me in the morning.
Gripped in pain they will wonder.
First Published by Synchronized Chaos
Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.
Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem
The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh