Black Lines (Don't Do It)

Dozen strong peanut gallery,

but cursed by the baker's dozen,

to forever howl at the moon 

in desperate hope of a 

lottery bug in the code

crowning you king for a day.

Dead tired, falling back on 

the basement or is it sexual,

into the aether and aether,

fruit of the loins and the

gods will breathe it they will.

Deep commitment to thoughts

that land wrong, shocked that

they landed at all, shocked that

I found them, shocked that the

slapped arse blushed them life,

er hives, evolution, bad faith.