Gateways lean us through this hollow porch where we can hide from the sun beside the prank carcasses and dayglo ribbons of an elf burn.
Cast a black moon spell over all the land, as though every dream conjured in a magic crystal ball could refer and reflect to your crunchy riffs hobbling up the sidewalk in scruffy glory (as clothes dance without owners).
Hunger for pines brought you crash-dancing beneath weary beats where your warbles lilaced caramel channels.
Queens took the spirals from gold lollipops, neglecting the genius whose perfume cracked and peeled as it disease-blinded the bottle.
Vampires are recording muted laugh-tracks in your bedroom as we scour the twee and pill plugs with pink plastic goo.
