concerning the instantaneous removal of decayed excess. Like the pale horse of pestilence riding through a field of lilies. a plastic drinking glass with a congealed puddle of milk and a silent red rim. Where is my yesterday father? like games played with three year old dolphins, we jump through the flaming hoop to land on our fat bellies. Content in a boiling sunrise. Small cockroaches scurrying and feasting on the cracked crumbled creationism. I say goodbye, choke and gasp at the foul stench of thorny roses. Red bloomed at the foot of a cliff amid the rumbling stones.

07/07/2002

Posted on 07/07/2002
Copyright © 2026 Travis G Finborg