the tripsometimes by chance a lifeis launched into being from almost nothing.and if it gets overwhelming,just sing.
repetitionthis time, like other times, will bea ledge.
a mathematical poemthere's this girl who's photographed herself from 100 angles over almost 100 days. do we love her for who she be or what she wain't?(so arrogant that i'll probably jack off againall over the ocean and seeping down into the sands underneathand into the core of the planet,making the earth pregnantand swelling its belly with the demon child of impatience, lust, self-pity and coffee and booze.)she gon give all her secrets away,but she forgot, boy.still wearing that nasty nasty black eye phlegmit encircles her moist (dishonest, but vulnerable) cameras.secrets stored in the domed pockets of zitsrather than escaping the mouth to a kind ear.we are definitely alonebut at the same time, connected.who is she to be so self-indulgentand who am i to judge her?soon enough, we'll all make it to ourpersonal hell, orpersonal heavenand maybe they're really the same, separated only by a slight tweak in imaginings.crystals, after all,reflect all kinds of light:it shoots off in many di