Poem on the blades of grass
I am that holy ghost whined and chiseled at by that culture roar of freedom that don't come with no repair log
The sweet bitter sound of your spoon on my back hurt in its own special way now I am the Long John purple and silver harlot
The one with the scratching with the sharp nails
And Waining at that sea of ocean
A killing bird in my best friend's room is all you saw