why's virus
sometimes I wake up in the funeral position
pecuniary feeling, like here, can I pay with my peeled skin?
maybe god is striking me with lightning every morning
maybe the fire in my eyelids is saying something
maybe in the vein of get behind me satan, skull’s wide open
watch how why’s virus keeps my séance privy to infection
waving its question mark privates and warming up stick pins
to fuck my fright just right in every one of its cerebral corners
note to the self, roar to the world: the lord is just another dirty bird
along the beach, caking on motor oil and dandelion seeds
must concoct another soular father for all you dead reflective
cells, must pull the tree burs from my blowup life and sighhhh
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