Last night, sittin' in an outhouse,somewhere near Lake Pontchartrain. On a porta-gullet slip slidin' away,balanced atop the fevered skin.Singin' nocturnes in th' rain,wit' a voice of a licorice bassoon. Th' big wheels kept on turnin'and grandpa thinkin' it a...

Tuesday:4PM...once upon my midnight dreary as I sat hibernating with a bottle of Jose Cuervo, after tripping over my shadow in a nocturnal dance desecrating my creeping insomnia. An acolyte of the dark academia, until the final page is...

Monday:2AM In a state of bubo a leaden itch begins where the cacophony ends, dragging its obsidian skin of molten lava against the gravity, as if a metronome ticking through the earth's shoulder plates peeling back the illusion of...