My Newest Poem

'Satan Recipe' I would never eat my pet Canaries. It's better they panic less neccesarily, with flashbacks of that airspace-net. I head out picking berries, to throw at hippy-picnics, as a cynic who's not hip to the pips. Venerate the cesarean-pit of Pidgeons after weddings and leave the peasant rice alone for me to take, deranged and swift, to place it's name in the diary underneath my bedding on my burgeoning list.