Shaken Not My-Immortal-Soul-Driven-To-Madness


Tap it from the neighbors, vampire tap it.

Birds of the first light, shaken.

I love to love the words in you, 62.

The street with my son this morning, his form straight-up even though he is captive.

The tops of trees perch on a picture frame.

Who created you?!

I feel nothing but envy: a garden that expands!

Fondness unexpressed for your friends from Hell.

The metasurface of meatballs.

What is it like to live in a country so muscular?

White all over the ground, male tortoise adolescence.

One woman's holiness is another woman's distribution of primes.

The streets are cordoned off with apple blossoms.

The dead see scrolls.