The Wax Conspiracy

of dead horses and cryptograms

Foli[-age, +e à deux] creeps up in this place, Chicago School-driven. No other explanation for the slick suits that slid out the cloaca post-April spill. Shit stains tattooed on shit-stains, no amount of Canesten® will leave these souls clean.

Apathy rules; paths in these spider’s nests are desire lines: freezer to fridge to tremulousness – a natural natural progression for the racehorse shamed.

White collar stripped back to blue and left ‘fraid. Lined up and Joko Widodo’d, surely you saw what the fuck was coming. What’s left? One last chance to Roanoke’em, cut them motherfuckers loose to watch them fall. Another xx to rue: L.L.E., chappy cripped.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Sunday, 18 January 2015

The Wax Conspiracy

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