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.
If wasting your young years, brush away your tears and run faster than the speed of train explosions; past sister, storm, and candlelight; through Regret's cement, if only to skin and flay this moment a harming icicle.
Tuscan Leather know breaths to lick the ones and zeroes and leave the chorus girls on the tarantula headdress.
