now is the winter of our dispossession. the gorgeous trill of reverberated guitars fade with the diffusement of the sunlight. it’s elementary in such icy meager times. who can promise the green of spring forever?
“I won’t touch that with a thousand yard stare.” St. Gutter says with a gleam on his remaining tooth. the fronds from the world swamp rise up like the bony arms of skeletons raised in some obituary hosanna. choruses burst in belches of sulfur and cordite. skinflints and skinned knuckles. a tiny Chernobyl in every home. such is life in the haunted trailer park of America.
“GIVE ME SOME MORE!” cry the ghosts in the crystalmeth mist.
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