Chaos, that boring
bastard hound.
He doesn't deserve that name.
He is predictable
as geriatric medication,
chewables.
He's senile, ~~~~s and ~~~~es for no reason.
Hardly smokes or even drinks any wine.

He's chaos as much as I'm chaos,
with a wit sharper
than a Blarney Stone straight razor.
And and and
sutured ventricles frothing
from inexperienced lips, yes.
Cackle, like southern midnight.
As much as
I'm calculative
as spider silk lingerie, like
traffic lights that learn to change
as you drift
drunk beneath them.

I look at his mange
of old skin and ask him,
What makes you so ~~~~ing special?
He mumbles in
Aramaic tongues and I
try to repeat.

How autobiographical is
my work?

I sip more
Barefoot from the old bowl.

How autobiographical is
the story of creation
the spark
whispers to the inferno?

i'll never sit down reading you, standing ovation :)

Good read man..

i like it.

I'm envious of your visuals- much enjoyed...