Four Poems, Nine Seasons, Three-Headed Cerebrus.

[zaq_weiss]

Sometimes, struck slicked back against patterned walls,
In bedsheets ridden in sickness or in health i crawl from morning to morning,
Eyes open, eyes closed, singing to myself through brazen conchoids,
Shitting pipe-dreams, my mind in the streets, Rimbaud swollen with pride.
Tangled, dew-like, soft, cold, and torn in the mouth, caught with hooks in the

Comments

[ismellanagenda]

hey
hey zaq
what up baby?