but again the world has been spared.
I ask my house to exist, amazed and icy in the white light,
the spent night stays on in the eyes of the blind. JLB.
In the horsehead forest lies the lare of the bacon. Furred green streak of fat wraps slow around the cave, vicious, hard diamonds of putrescent glittermeat flash light beams from the depths to the swirling stars. my sleeping bag smells like damp chickens and skivvies.