Tap tap tap tap.
Something profound was about to happen.
A post. A chant. The burning of a circle of candles. Spelling my name in a random parking lot with powdered incense.
Instead i sit here like a ghost falling asleep to Ross Lynch on my TV.
The music is always playing. The music is always playing. Not for pleasure. It’s pain.
Radiator blasts. Apartment discomfort. The cute men turn into trolls with dissected penises.
. (Was going to put a pic of one but i lost the pic, my stiffy due to the pic and now half of my dinner due to a prolapsed asshole while trying to find aforementioned dual penii)
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. I crave the silence. Nothing nothing. Sprinklers going off in flood warnings. Puddle divers everywhere.
Tears. In the river. In my supper. No cranberry sauce for you. Heretic. Golden shower. Vomit is coating the floor. It matches my new drapes. Should i leave it? Should it stay for the night?
To keep the puddles company? Lay with the trances. Deliver the quiet. Not real at all. He heard. He heard.
Ganja memory.