Don’t skimp on insurance. Here’s the reason.
An edited ghost swims up to the gate, raking its scalp with clothespegs for fingers.
“My hair’s gone crazy,” it says.
The chu-chi faced magus with hard bittern handstumps
rubs salt in your wound and then licks it all clean,
angels jerking through the middle eight.
The sign of Osiris slain? I should cocoa.
Dawns age. Call it physics. Here’s the reason.