This is the thinktank,
the matching demands of ransom beneficiaries
sunshafted and gore-rotted beneath russian-slurred
love notes exchanged over a livefire.
Mortar mix brick-maids
swirl on their knees in bobble-head fashion
while spintress glitter throat dreamwhores
writhe and cackle with the phases of the moon.
Anti-everything 20 somethings
all changed their vote
when their cocks reached the lips
of giant-eyed cartoon teens in the small hours of morning.
Fevered debutants with coca-cola eyeliner
bleed their wounds on the street
as the friction in their jeans
sets the city ablaze.
"Fevered debutants with coca-cola eyeliner
bleed their wounds on the street
as the friction in their jeans
sets the city ablaze."--I'm going to wish I came up with this stanza first for a very, very long time. I think this whole thing has some of my favorite imagery I've ever seen out of your work, man.
