Another day in ravaged villages of dream. This cannibal you cannot see, but smell like busy hunting dogs. Promise is a rhapsodist buried in his leaving rites. Every hour, you walk the tightrope of his shakes. Mood swings are an acrobat without a tendon in its legs.
Night is quite anonymous.
The bed, a canyon blowing dust. Sleep, a traitor to the watch. He fumbles for a can to pop like anchors in a raging sea. Giving is a gravy ladle bending 'til its metal snaps. Love has spilled another feather from its cloth, stained with semen of a tear.