a pale Eichmann sort of pallor
the emotionless Scandinavian vibe
trunks of green tea hidden in the attic
the softer fruition in source of allegory
the curved sensation running up your spiked pit
engaged in February chores and lying
to the father of the mother of your children
getting drunk on a forgotten Saturday night
and teething on old leather tasting Catholic sin
the personality you yearn to warp from wind the water pain
jealous viscous rage of the penny nail driven
to uncharacteristic of the pedantic scribe
who could care the less for consciousness
for vainglorious eternity
a slow second at Spring