track-mark mission. cigarette submission, giving in the the pilgrim that brings his own kool-aid melts to the picnic of the kicknig.
would you fancy a shred of SHUT THE FUCK UP!
tipping back....followed by trimethiplene monsters.
lavished in the suds of blissful retention.
holding the thought that tomorrow can be
that change form the one dollar you spent on these lousy sneakers...
the ones that don't carry you down the day,
the ones that leak into the punch, that freak out the cherries, that piss on the dog called style.
metered for failure so goes the woolgathered briggens.
speak the lines lost in the shallow plains that tripple when driven upon.
fatigue. right to the end.
