Fate, a sanguine movement about him, barely can hold himself up in rain-soaked bliss
Juan de Fuca
They say it's foggy here, but Carl seems to be dissipating
I never liked holidays much
Themes in poetry make patterns on my skin
Defeated Pavement
Black horses pull at me while deluded horses talk about heroin addiction
entropy
Why do the hills climb as they do?
evelyn
My dearest Evelyn, your pale, freckled skin, I smell the scent of lilac on it again
San Francisco Spirit Ramblings pt. 2
Oh, lurid San Francisco, harsh in your corners and abandoned doorways
Tuesday’s got feeling
Much to my own distaste, I'm sitting in a bar alone on St. Patrick's Day, drinking a fucking Guinness.
Hands
I look down at my hands sometimes and I don't see mine, I see my mother's
Christmas stew for the bitter and barefooted
I'd make it with bare feet on wooden floors and retroactively, read the fucking recipe so that it doesn't burn