I'm looking into the corner of my brain trying to find inner self behind the rich cob webs.

A dusty shaft of light wafts down and shines on the pleasure lobe.

Red rich in blues flow through the oozing cracks getting patches for the broken bleeding sacs.

Making cents with the twenty four repeater taking the life's meaning and digressing it out down

through the twenty fifth lock.

Flings on strings come up away from the death toll eating alive the troll taking non-composing barbs.

Down to the dark glass maze shining unused words in stark contrast that are rupturing at rhythm.

Pouring black into a bath running with water till it foams and sputters, splitting the skin back and

attacking at the lowest point.

Upping the downing drowning the frowning burlap in a pool of translucent white, blackness.

Make sure you lock your open door and don't feed the full wolf while your hand is still in your pocket.

And stop producing excuses which are being pulled up by the fat counterweight on your figure eight

style acting torque.

Artists don't manifest art. Art manifest Artists.