From the other-sided, alee the valley; to give what you want —
says the mentor, irreparably. As pretense gets wrecked like a
photograph. As we haunt eternally.
It's hard to tell.
Cold guy drifts in cold veins, this nightly swim.
So I overheard in LA, grab a shovel, LA is dead.
Nothing is Real. Lame,
I know. Ask if there's proof.
Of life, if not for death's warming the carpet living room.
I'm officially bored with weed,
as if a backpack with nothing in it. As if I hope the world is done
sleeping in synchronicities.
Are there heavenly capillaries networking? Blacked-out to neon.
Who is recording
our untitled hallucinations: washed up on the amethystine sea he plunged,
and what of the notes nailed to the roof with a gun? Days of
noise funneling into the hollows
of my hips. A lot of beating hearts out there. As they say, imitation
is suicide, you lowlife.