crushing pedals with steel toe riffs
that’s how you smoke it
if this is the Noise they said would sweep me away
they said I’d drown under,
be carried away by
dreamy sleepy Vocalist
drifting in the 90s
floating on VCR tapes and rusty groovy reels of graphic melodies,
then I was born for this
yeah, nostalgia burning a hole in my lungs.
empty boxes and black shelves of her occult books.
here a ring under a scarf, she thought one of her spirits stole it, and there a small journal of spells, pungent with the perfume of leaves from her garden.
the last note a paragraph on resurrections.
I miss my friend…
flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe.
Masturbating in the absence of professional optometrists endangers the sobriety of waterlogged store clerks.