<span;>i want to breathe slow;
<span;>but i live in hyperventilating caskets,
<span;>they don’t crack under the sun,
<span;>they don’t decompose their postures;
<span;>their rowboat obedience is fascinating,
<span;>it’s waterproof.
<span;>it’s wickedness.
<span;>it’s stroking feathers under my bloodshot eyes,
<span;>(this watercolour brain urgency is)
<span;>i too have the wingspan of a sewer rat,
<span;>and fly the same distance of dignity.
<span;>i have the flight plan of 9/11, <span;>
<span;>(in archaic standby)
<span;>waiting on saturday’s powdered
<span;>homily emancipation
<span;>i only remember what i ate when it comes back up;
<span;>i hide my germs in methodical sermons
<span;>as a hyperbolic host,
<span;>i paint my stomach with a brown shine and decorate my lungs with a thousand chemicals,
<span;>mind is cancer,
<span;>i am a garden of regurgitated second hand organics,
<span;>as a degenerated legend
<span;>my nick name is laugh at me;
<span;>i always feel like i am holding onto something hypothetical,
<span;>and i still havent found
<span;>any smilelines,
<span;>fossils,
<span;>or existence
