You’ve become as soft as your ever-soft prick.
It’s all gone to hell.
There’s always a catch. Sometimes, it’s the fall.
I bet you thought it would be different, being human.
…sharp teeth of an angel.
Poetry is only a moment.
We point at the path of sticky entrails and we blame you.
There is mad, mad joy to be found.
This can’t bode well, can it?
Living in my head, it’s not such a bad thing.