Smoker 59

Between fingertips
embers light and suss.

Tears dry.  We can
kill them.

We can kill them.

Cursed.  Blessed.  War.

Given up on crying.  A teardropular object.

I've heard the stockpiles of drums (bass)
buried beneath the dunes around Dakota
are going south.

Might be the mountains.  My geography is shit.

You heard about that?

Do you have a magic marker?

Silly is like cologne.  Gear?  Three.  Cruising?  Mh-hm.
Cruising speed.  Hypersleep.  Upon arrival
ready
to go to war.  Beheadings
are not without their "cannot go back".  In the theme
of what turns
a rum runner
into a red drum
and a bass runner

is rules.

Three five seven snub hug
hip
hippie
fuck boy wink
rotate

Dream.

Wake.

He can
t
hu
rt
you]]\\\\

He cannot hurt you anymore.  He cannot hurt you.
You are okay.  Ten four?