Palms

Mild fleas tasty fleas-seasoned beef, cornered my dying breeze.
Stale plastic buzz dangles sweaty fleas, kissing pastries-sweetened crumbs masking the disease.
Up with once u trip along ripe aisles fucking my belief in the tasty comforts, ignoring dripping piss drips , now pleased you bitch.
Swollen fingers tease the fleeting breeze, and those same palms fuck the stick for one more fling, and goats and robbers lick green


Douglas Sinclair

Disco Fries

With these purple pricks...eyes blistered, bloated gut and splattered reds flowing from gashes and splits, black eyed dicks, I fucked him up good.
-That blood pasted monkey.
Flowers flew like angels sliding across my sleep.hell flicked a match from deep creases sneaking loosely across my dreams.
This junkie punk ripped from junked out sleeves and strawberries revealing the bluest holes sewn with needle teeth. And cracked up lizards shed rippled veins caressing withered leaves. And puking moms flunked Christian sons as daughters of demons raped faking nuns and I awoke with scorched split tongues dripped spit and spread jaws as dead shadows played in me..a soul dances amongst bleeding weeds, the gravel that held now fled and drowned as these shadows soon pressed me down and souls lost those disco shoes as needles dragged across those vinyl blues and chanting pedals along horned organs surrounded the scene as deviled harmonies devoured my dreams.
Perfect noise from sizzling flame played perfect melodies and I smelled it again. As I awoke it was neatly there sleeping across my hand. Looking up it smiled then begged for one more numbing kiss.
-My beautiful ROSE waits for me to split the rocks and set her free, orgasmic bliss engulfed my sleep as tasty crack fingered me and that hypnotic music became my friend. As souls find their silent end.

Lazy Faithless Wins- Pt. 1

Day 3- junkies warming hands burning the carcass of copper choked pipes. Hard cocked cocks drag the crippled kids out for sport. Shouting cheers for the home team, your soul burns beneath crack infested flesh. Pitted pores drowning amongst coke fried milk, grease slides upon the sick dying minds where the healing of God- choose a God, never finds its feet. Fumbling ambition, lost on the turf once admired. Winning lost its reality win death found a home.

Lazy Faithless Wins- Pt. 2

Day 4- Visitors strap on sneakers blaring daily hypocritical sneers and fancy shedding of those laughing tears-applauses masquerading as holy prayers as he calmly assures a win for the home team's faith found rebirth as cracked rotten limbs dead long before these wounded lies find life once again. Bitten by black tar dripping from hard rocks singing, popping. Hang on courageously for a few remaining years, hidden years finding truth when your soul soon disappears. Shake the hands of losers and righteous shadow casting pricks who claim victory. Yet the only game played was bitches and fagots slicing hands where nails once split the beast from that Holy Land. Death is upon us, u and mother glued to empty wombs. Sweet silence finds its place as u slowly find rest with the sun, never rising again.

Demons and You

The Web is stirring about demonic facades lurking amongst us, snuggling beneath tacky upholstery. What pillow commands this wretched souless beast, enabling its turn at expression filled guises. Or is it expressionless art clipped from Adobe or other phonies.

Do not misunderstand me. The light I make of this fumbling of minds, sights, and interior designers doesnt negate one Very important truth. Demons and their composer are all too real my choir. Surely, they lurk within crevices and cracks that ring out reality, scattered among the clutter of our faithless realm. Adjacently, and yes intermittingly diving into our spiritual world, they are no phonies I assure you. How do I know? Because I've seen enough to believe, wholeheartedly. However, I doubt seriously demons bother masquerading as some character from Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' while using a ugly couch pillow as cover. No my dear fool, there much more clever then that. And Closer as well. Tell me youve never felt a chill, a presence carrassing the wind as it brisks by you. Or tell me youve never felt eyes upon you when no one is home. Leave the photo stitching to wise asses, but give the evil is do. A empty room, a lifeless couch, upon a computer screen hiding for all to see. Ha. Much more clever, ... and Closer.

Another note from the Hymns.