They are supposed to be dead in the winter, flies and relapsed
cavemen.....the woman waits outside for the delivery of carbon-based
coils, silver strands choking spider shit...ESCAPE OF THE JELLO BULLETS!
I rancor my buckles, those poets who think they are poets? Yes, my hair
is full of low-grade maggots/....
maggots and the utter shriek of Infinite
February 12, 1997