Jonathan

Gargling spinal cord, you are laughing through the depths of a twist in the harkened vertebrae—the garbage smells, and it's passé. Metronomes meet and greet the garners on your hips they twist through the tiny arteries. Everlasting, candescent parts of me. Tunnels of vision decorate with lime light fatal momentums aspirate, timeless measures appetite. Single coil petrified the fire fight. You lose hair when you're done. Yes you're dead when its done.