1
the memory shoots through my veins like the coldest lightning bolt (crown)
distant lovers roam the halls of my cranium
forty-eight silt filters under a pile of bones
please belie me with such haste
an opium bath to seize my quivering pores
so mundane it dissolves like brittle stone
about to fall asleep perceiving extra dimensions
crawling through brimstone like a fire slug praying for incinera (throat)
everytime i look at the clock it seems to read the same number
SPERMGANG RECORDS
