One’s another word for dream: failure
I’d like to think of it as subject of a bohemic epicure
Who has lost his taste for art and succumbing into whatsoever love films
imprisioned by scribbling words of Neruda, Whitman, and/or whosoever pseudo poet de jure
intoxicated drunken sensation of holy holy holy CRUSH

this shielded fort is slowly collapsing
flanked attacked side forthwith with just one feeling
God or rather Burroughs slays THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR FUCKING