Scraps & Thoughts

my paranoid obsession
a vector in your direction


The night brings a consumptive melancholy
Its fingers caress my skin like
A scalpel
Surgically removing what remains
from daylight

A tired terror drives
this apathetic synthesis of
dissonance and relief


“Oh we flee the scene of our little crime
We feel so free
But the hounds of the law, they bite our heels
As we retreat

If I clean my rocket
We’ll go flying today
And we’ll hit the pockets
Of warm and crispy air”