Look out for "The Impossible Evacuation of Los Angeles." It will soon be coming.
Word.
Other shit to come, but working makes Torr a dull boy.
-T Off


This Time.This time last year, You could have paraded the aphids around my neck and crept a needle in. My soldier cormorants would have fallen deaf on red herrings. This old season, Was a brittle bower under the mist of the placated arbour. Switching blades for weaving gallows on dew drops; Dried to a husk under Joshua trees and mortar shells Where my capillaries burst and streak the skies with paper planes Wishing god damned blights on the heads of writers. This bygone air, Is telling tales in the hollow of a hand where pooled the precious, Why the musk of dust is a humid troubadourThis Time.


Weathered Skulls on the PlainsWeathermen are in my eyes, my friend, When I eat bitter red wine in ice form. Bits of towel stained heavy with the same. As a cavity search clenching down on the- And a light born shaded window and protector. Of a heavy metal blade rigged against the throat burners, Words confessed to the address of his believers. Tongues dance the code of happenstance, As a state of rest. Burning initials in my chest.Weathered Skulls on the Plains
What has taken my pride is a lotus And whispers a draft into my ear, Slipped in a brilliant array boiling away the iris petals and charred water. Crept as a ho


For want of a half eaten shredFor want of a half eaten shred of silk, His loss kept a place on the table bare and wrapped in spiders. Why? Genesis is a dirty word in the breath of a stale henchman with a fork in his tongue Driven nice and rare over the charcoal of his sun-dried teeth. Ply a little liquor in his sores for a lark to nibble on the ill-advised confection of his neck, And he should be a man on the wall if they knew what was good for him. Shell be bitter and red when she mistakes him for any but a common sing-along; Littered for weeks on the hard concrete with the bottles and creaks of Littlerock Dam. ChokedFor want of a half eaten shred


The Cowardly Constant.You could have wept to see her palate cleansed: Spat bloodied foam, the Good Words, mangled screws of an iron fetter, Though her teeth broke like crusted sugar in the grinding of lock and key. You would have rosied your fingers in the stains surviving a concentration case,The Cowardly Constant.
Rubbed a little life into the face of things when the wound sprang up, And blazoned your letter upon the pale.
When the flood comes: These leaden handed pages will trumpet the herald call to scatter; These kings and men will spur their flanks from carrion to spear-shatter;
These islands hewn in the stream cut strand w
End transmission.
//xoxo
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"There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion." ~ Sir Francis Bacon
I AM A NINJA OF LOVE
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"Courage is a kind of salvation." ~ Plato
Please also see my photography account: [link]
why am i not watching you, wtf.
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Much violence is based on the illusion that life is a property to be defended and not to be shared. -Henri Nouwen
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the next time someone presumes to know the real you, tear your shirt open to reveal the squirming cluster of lampreys you keep on your chest.
Um. Hello.
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"That is because the English language is my BITCH, and I bend it to my wishes accordingly..." -T
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