The Wax Conspiracy

the eyes of god can’t get any bigger

[-W +H]as poetry ever been commissioned to absorb damage adsorbed in the municipal briar patch?

Wet work kaffeeklatsch, cana canoso, sat around a table: diseased old men and hypoxic laws. That’s the devil dancing in hell you sense, bopping to the sound of the state that murders its own. An autopoietic dance, reproducing and maintaining itself with whatever something’s are added to the air.

No amount of stomata will purge us of this taint. This one will fester in us like all the ones that came before, like all the ones that are to come.

Clear Sky breaks acceding to a holy smog tonsure. Time to call it – [XxX] – slip into my Prousted cocoon.

AC & MS, rest in peace

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Wednesday, 29 April 2015

The Wax Conspiracy

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