SICKPOET

My thoughts have been strangely solid in my mind. They turn seemingly liquid on paper, and leave the residue of poison vapour on my choleric tongue.

SICKPOET

This scent is all consuming; I breathe her in, I breath her out. You’d think I learned to stay down in a week and would seek again what there was from half the latitude. You’d think I’d learn— but everything is as important to me as a smiting hand to rouse consciousness.
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SICKPOET

My thoughts have been strangely solid in my mind. They turn seemingly liquid on paper, and leave the residue of poison vapour on my choleric tongue.

SICKPOET

This scent is all consuming; I breathe her in, I breath her out. You’d think I learned to stay down in a week and would seek again what there was from half the latitude. You’d think I’d learn— but everything is as important to me as a smiting hand to rouse consciousness.
• Reply