WORDS BECOME THREATS VOLUME ONE: THE HYPNOKRISHNA POETRY SERIES

lives almost over.

Cold cold angel razorblade

perched on a pearl drop

with a glisten you can’t capture

With a dirty mind.



It was a

Short day last winter passed

dropped from a fire escape

It fell screaming I forgot

just how good it felt.



Pale sterile workingman’s hands

Guide that machine

through flesh unclean

Personal pain can’t

unclog the toilet

Sometimes stitches don’t

Close the Wound.



Choke choke cancer hourglass

Dead in a whorehouse

with a scandal you can’t avoid

Like a shriveled cock.



It was a

familiar fantasy often modified

Smoked from a sodacan bowl

I bled from the lips I panicked

So then I cut myself.

THE END

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