The Title is Always Changing

The title is always changing. Marching for the horizon, looking at the sun that is goozing all over the electric monkeypeople.


Do you feel no shame? You walk around the world as if you can take off your flesh like a dirty suit. And you love her because the stains of murder have made her face beautiful. Cavort. Cavort. Your footsteps together are interlaced chains, forming a thick circle around a deep hole of grief from out of which you cannot climb.

Blood in the paint on her face. So gorgeous, she.

A dead demon put that shimmer in her hair.

How many identical versions of myself have fallen from the tree? And where did they fall? Some are surely rotten.

I am sucked into the right angles.

He cannot be in the army because of the spikes on his ankles. Also, he shot out the sun warming the planet on which he was born.

Our heads are connected by cables we cannot see. And there are clusters that want to crush joy and genius.

Music is God’s voice, and it doesn’t need to vocalize the humanmonkey words for God.