It's all still psychopomp
Grandiose delusions of importance.
Divining the new water hole.
Creating the next explosion bigger
than the last.
Or making more words to be won
in entry into a dictionary.
Thoughts you think are arranged
in ways that will never be duplicated
or reanimated Herbert West.
Remember
 it ended in those
over microwaved dinners
frozen on the inside
oozing on the out.
Still.
It's stuck in those manic moods
where the world is new and kicking
in the air.
Pink, not with blood
but a glistening inbetween ready
to fuck.
Still all mental masturbation
or
condescention of a mind too negative
to praise a creation.
Just vile enough to eat the promise
of a new tomorrow waiting in
exhultant beatification of a waning moon
being conquored by the breaking
light spreading from the fingertips
of the horizon burning a moment
into the silk of your memory.
fragile and stained with too much cum.
Or expectant.
But hey.
I don't know if you'll get it.
They never do.
They just keep going.
Giving birth to new mouths.
To say things I already heard.

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