Y-Control is the Axis.
What cold war could occur when I was a dead corpse for 15 evermore.
Don’t leave the table.
I’m fuguing with you in Spirit.
The vessel had been abandoned long ago.
And even as the Opera-Siren-Contralto
Coughs up rudimentary human-medicine
I made as a God.
The Isles of the Blessed proved profound in rot.
Nitre like the last breath of your crooked cigarette fag
In your crooked game.
Ease the breath of the flesh
And the blood may pour clear
To titanium onidized.
Don’t let your girl get piercings.
No warrior to attest.
And even Plato’s Army
Has been directed as the undead.
To shoot-on-site
With everything mite.
The Terracotta Warriors rather live in Hell,
Than deal with your bullshit.
The Tank Girl is from China.
The Digital Band is archaic.
And all my characters are feed-for-fuel in shortcode.
Screen-actors? A Guild?
I don’t think so.
This is the WGA.
I’ve never been to the Red Carpet.
A highschool Gym for thousands of dollars of old-people
Haute Coutoure.
Get trashy.
I kill off-in-drag.
Play my game.
A view to a kill.
A view to the white buck of oath.
You haven’t met your match.
I’m savory, not saccharine.
You just taste it that way.
petrichor - archive 