Density is grams per milliliter squared, or cubed

dense morning drones of time and wavelength and caustic sunbeams and hangovers thick

procuring cardiac tics and enlarged hearts and gout


minor occurrences,  all the more pleasant than the pit

dead presidents son’s and positron emissions and mercurial starfish bulbous pod forma

men women and children killers and priests


lightshade lamp downs, facedown narcotic and deep towards the pit

credit card guarded gum tac forms and amusement park restricted lines and Midwestern biblical literalists

all come to an end by the fates’ dance along the halls of man


but it never ends, and ever extends the pit

the pit at the foot of your bed in the morning,

the back of your head at night,

the bottle’s bottom,

a lost credit card,

an unfaithful fellatio,

locked up gunmen at the gunrange dawn,

and their delinquent sons,

the infidel hell sent from an acid trip death, and pressure and voltage and force fed free fall

an unending hymn of frictionless contemplation


smiling like a deaf child at the circus, the pit

soul coring plastic surgery Sundays and the blood chalked  staple gun of Monday’s

hope, evaporating like coyote sweat in an Arctic desert


the blade of an obsidian hatchet, an eyes closed death, the pit

a starless hopefuck eclipsing monster howling over the course of a thousand years in a

remote dank dark shack of Moloch, hollow boned and you are


by twisted holy memories that only the gods can forge from the pit.


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