a project of skill-less and dead-author labor turned dead-text turned dead-reader, love
affair with space, some cloud to influx information without regard for human eyes. &poetry
Saturday, November 20, 2021
the arm moves slow across the field
with a text that follows without the rest
it built me a desk so we could write a world
--and his wonder women--put me to bed, to know that i could have with a plus one, but youre split in too many
No comments:
Post a Comment