Most of my poetry had to do with blood

Most of my poetry had to do with blood, I am were will be going to have been four years old
I am has will be going to have been the sage in the moonlight that keeps you safe
tie a red balloon a thread an inkling, around yer index finger
blindly holding a similar large ball
red like a clownose
pouring it over the tallest building with the tallest elevator
we jump so high
through
we de-accelerate in the opposite direction
and float
lil' balloon
pricked finger
on a wrinkle
tied 'round your corners
that makes me love you love you
only sometimes,
because i'm off in the clouds
i'm gone
pulling the cotton over my ears
(she fills her head with cotton and floats to the top)
we know everything
we see everything from here

was she they her him turning touches edge of a false flower
Bouquet?

never says goodbye dear flower
smells 'em
drops them
pity
says she.
Was she they her,
HIM?

A PINT OF HONOR
ON YOUR BATHROOM/BALLROOM NAPKIN?
v.i.p. section
JUstice(the DJ)
is here, and so is the flaming Grey Goose
that we shot
in Duckhunt (NES)

Rewind to real life

A poor bunny, a gift in the eye.
Some red string pouring out of it.
So I buried it and smoked its burial ground.
A PINT OF YOUR HONOR, dear friend.






***TBA*****