Category: Amie Newman

In any festered heart, from a whore, bastard, child, there start no questions, only pain, pet upon till the act becomes an addiction. There is no wet spot worth the entering of labor. Nothing really answers that pinch and its attendant procedural. Humanity’s systems quack wide, anally, regardless, through a lucre mesh, through a status quo theology via paycheck, via slow cremation.

What world is there without art horses bellowing to the new stag?
Frayed man, empty your pockets. I loved you.
Saint my status in the blackest death calls you can give me
for the end pulls my hats off to your birthday suit.
Crumbling useless in mousy mouths, what purpose did we swerve?
Put out my light, snuff the whisper I place on your shoulders—
be the wind that blows out my candle right.