crystals charge at the window sill healing my hangover 

dried coral once technicolor dream-walking in liquid blanket maps. 

Oh dear, this one goes out to my demi-fossilized mind

of twisting bourgeoise house plants. 

 

my philosophy is the plastic hook ready to crack at the first solar flare 

​

I'm ready to disintegrate in the coffee shop, into the tasteless acoustic, doubled guitar

which is strummed in an upbeat hipster 2/4.

 

I'm ready to be taken somewhere else another interface to drive me

to a higher form of insanity than i am currently capable of achieving.

 

am i a hack artist?

 

gnawing at the plastic hooks of these hanging green pets, under or over watered

waiting for the little thread to snap!

​

so maybe soil will hit the floor, get swept up and thrown outside, never to look down on this fake wooden tile again.