cobalt

Why, look down, look down, theres ink on my hands,
Ive been theoretically disemboweled, dissected by
my own wordless terrorvision of the future. Paralyzed by abject projectors,
transforming into the item that is most desired, eviscerated by happy teeth, an empty toy
thermos in a shimmering mystery oasis of sand, flesh, desire and
fluctuated promises. If there is a wife, shes no longer here,
and, by the way, by the way, congratulations on getting married, you fucks;
enjoy the complementary mints, the guests are already dead.