Death at Conception
a patterned well-worn rut
verses and musings of j stoeckmann, all rights reserved.
a patterned well-worn rut
we need magic not propaganda fools
PS, my Mindy sweet agave roasting in the night
to the cobbled cortex of my masses
considering your guilt
molly slipped someone some molly
We are homo sapiens, so we think
sometimes it’s genuine love but mostly it’s something else
crazy horse’ scar like beads we see with our fingers
Days gone by with endless promise, stolen quiet