Turnt offerings
foe & true
down & up
bore soils
unto the sitter in a bowl
the toolish faking torn
unto bubbles
the crevices of the drafty
seen before the gun
cut up & shut off shut
up you dumb
bunny humping your
woe over hill &
under the bed where
you’ve bred more
mouths to heap curses
upon the local
fig tree for reasons
never fathers wail
the dude flayeth
the daggers like a sunken
man the fountains
mauling the same shall
fry up the fruits
of the labored
breathing they
tried to cease but
fuck what’s the point
in even squeezing
lemons when they’ll
give you
only just enough
to wow sickedness;
nope in the goonday
lord of he that sayeth,
the game floweth out of his
mouth
his pwns are bongs,
his heart will squirm,
as a phone,
bold & dull of phase.
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