Author: Will Bradford
Last night, I summer bled through the ceiling
I felt like a spider crawling out of a shoe
As a wave of candy and arsenic
I channel surfed my dread and regret
Static, nothing changes
Forever falling, forever failing
Ideas, someday, may break us down
Douse and bask in bible-bleached late night 800 numbers
Booze-drenched sweater-stained quote-machine
The hills run over the heroes buried
New aged mumbling elders waxing gothic
Home sweet catacombs
Precision velvet lawn-care:
Razor Teeth at your service
Double edged sixpence preferred
Clairvoyant currency can’t play by the rules
Humid depression, ascending, marks another season
I never want to be a cemetery again
Last call, come clean, missed opportunities
I’ve got you searching in the dark,
A life less lived
Drowning in gloomy benzo-breeding fog pillows
I spill over the streets like general anesthesia
Missing ingredient, cure for life
Chaos messenger of the planet, lost, never returned
The Generation Analysts initiate their examination:
Pick it apart,
Leave no prisoners
No time to ponder
Someone call the arsonist!
Garbage talk, back-alley waste
A small animal curls into an arc
An empty bottle adrift in an ancient sea
Deep amongst the truest blue
Laugh, it’s over
Long live a new fiction
Of which nothing is or was before