Sticks of stone,
skin of bone,
A fiery upheaval of ancient slag...
the rage of a drunken man.
Clips on the floor, hair so precisely trimmed,
A garage full of boxed antiquities;
Flipper-tipper fluctuation;
Crackled crispy crunches;
Catch fire and burn;
burn the paint out of the darkest places of your soul.
Lift up the lonely lad, won't you?
Hyper-sentience is lonely.
[23:36|11.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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