I am not the basest, but I know him well.
out of my own chest
came a demon: a sort of apocalyptic slum lord
and we waited together. I had a croissant.
Abnormally open, speaking in mono
there is a thing like a tongue that hangs
and is good for nothing. At times in dreams
he tells me why it is so.
A method and question and message
we spoke writerly and said with this thing between legs
there is no such thing as success and too much motherfucking
symbolism surrounding this damned world's edge.
