DRAFT: there are words

there are words

and then there
are words

holes like
dried wounds
fat and in us
but still we stroll
through each
others dreams

like yr new ash
on my wet fingers
stains on buckled teeth

the salt

its 4am and
thick easterly
thrashes
my merzbow
state

there are trees
that need climbing

sometimes
there are shoes
to be worn

blades to be rendered
flat underfoot

but the words
keep tumbling
to the page

and the
roads remain
static

processed

elsewhere