Have the last twelve months you know burn into fluid.
A never ending game called five-in-a-liar that hosts so many families.
Or red letter eyes, so much so as a float of it.
I’m glad to see scorpions in the junior suite recovery room.
Carnivorous shin bones spoked hard in a boss’s shadow.
Forty fucking elbowed men pumping nice at a wall of white sponge.
“For mom!”—once, in vitro.
Right on the onus, a blue clam of all your pickled faces.
The ha ha rumor that in Antarctica all the scholars are sunburned and well fucked.
That guy with warm award hands got shredded on the ceiling of the highest room in the building.
Ataxia is a season of heather if you pull out of a cemetery enough.
The screen lineates as a young family worries each other against a brick wall.