reverend flint dispatch
ritual with Motion, these nails in the Desk in which We sit behind, continue to rain From our veins. we wrestle with Each nightfall,
-needing- too Many starving words...too many Whispers out the door.
there is A place near heaven, Between our fingers And under our thumbs, that has Us denting/stumbling for those Valuable clamps that keep us down.
we Must linger before we Wake.
the translucent drink Waits to be sipped and Devoured with all the passion that Can be...how many Times does it pass?
-the money shot-
in one horrific Moment, we are shown An intimate portrait. clear your Throats and accept What is seen. measure every second To the next power
free the ferocious hand!