Of dirty maniacs. Of homeless bastards. Of vapid sperma post-hate.
I’ve read the tales of bloodful warriors, those who embraced infamy and creamed joy. My aims differ, but for the most part I did believe the shot was genuine. As appointments disappear, I rediscover there’s only “us by me”.
Blue halo, golden rage. Mellow grin, high hopes. What did you do to your face? What did you do to our haze?
Dirt, dirt, the dirtiest and flames. Under an elegant firmament, or under a ceiling of rust of the bad kind? Rust’s a witness; and the fume is of abominable… ugh.
In you I trusted. The chance is lost.
