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With her, down in candyland

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Little instruments playing apathy

The tired parents only listen to it for fun.

Their children are in another room.

They’re crying about getting their clothes ripped off.

The parents love the cost of losing their family.

For fun,

For dinner, they’ll eat their blood.

It’s their way of feeling like a true sinner.

For love,

For blindness and all above

They sing and sing and sing,

to kill their children.

And then it’s done.

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she gave me a piece of rot and called it a hug

she sent me to mars and told me it’d be fun

i think she’s tremendous,

tremendously cruel

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you think your loneliness needs to be something else

why do you think your sadness has to be legendary?

you are more than a myth.

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many nights spent alone.

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there are lounging logs, sleeping and burnt out—just like me.

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black roses seem to me like visionaries; the way they compliment swans like an admirer