For Slut-Muffin

For Slut-Muffin

Life in the ampoule vexing air and the hippest factions press their faces to the glass where faces were pressed into impression. Crazy, or mi vida loca, isn’t as crazy as the world appears when you sleep with comic book blankets; its just that sort of thing. Press play and sad bastards make merry with angry youth, teens and their pusher others transposed into the millennium’s head dance: this is how revolutions are dispatched into modular fashion. What a boot wants is a leg with an air of satisfaction walking through the door. How ever you fix the lamp the bulb will still burn out. Knowing fate’s a joker with a long series of questions I took it quite literally that tree roots have sex appeal and only the hands understand the soil’s mandrake forms.