The beauty is it doesn't have to make sense -
banana.
As long as you feel something,
the flatulence of the mind is
as pretty as any prose.
Whoops,
got your nose!
Help me find the
water
at the end of the hose.
Doesn't matter how the story
goes.
I step
you step
each in a different walk
down the block
into the soul-crushing depths
of this wantless life;
what's your brand of strife?
How does it paint
pictures with
tiny little grammatical brush strokes
for different folks
getting stuck in my bike spokes
on the wheels
but no one feels
anything anymore
we just write shit.
