salt

its not quite oedipal: I wish you'd rub me with salt

jaw: unclench from godmothers tit

arms: unwind from their slender neck

eyes: lock on to the Old Night

heart: these arythmic clusterfucks will end us lest they cease, please

brain: gold chain. GOLD CHAIN.

readiness always lacks

the void is full of turbulent stew

simmering shredded caricatures

Tomb lake turned in to 'mblerg and atemporal angels spun gravely

defibrillated silly conmen instead of bringing back the Vine

I was drowning somewhat, can I be blamed for clasping onto buoys?

Yes. You're interfering with the beacon; entrain.

besides, you used to be a little buoy. Have faith.

Slugs are not leeches.