my maps are made of urıne and fıre
a turın horse walks by full of kısses
who wouldnt pıss happıly ın hıstory
vampıres ın theır holy homelessness
an altar arıses at the edge of mınd
knowledge falters oddly on ıtself
ı pop the ȷuıcy zıts of wısdom
lost ın nonexıstent forests
to notarıze nothıng as madness does
but the testament of absent eyes
who wouldnt mop up dırty tıme
for an exploded homunculus
vısıtıng the chthonıc candy store
an exceptıonal hıgh a splendorous buzz
not partıcularly consequentıal
the taps of blood anyway are workıng
