You’re my Venus, pretty lady, Aphrodite of a sulfuric acid. Morning Star sometimes, your alluring eyes sparkle like misleading stars. Larger than Earth can encompass Your beauty holds no bounds. No, not large like a Double Cheeseburger. I’m talking spacy, darling. Hair blonde like the gaseous swirls that Remind me of a half eaten Milky
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When describing his art, Dion told us that we could call it childlike, colorful, self-revealing, erotic, funny, and strange. Or we could describe it as having lots of eyes. We like all of those descriptions, but for this particular piece we’re going to leave out the word “erotic,” because honestly, no one wants to think
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Welcome, one and all, to the December issue of Defenestration! It’s late. I know it’s late, you know it’s late, Eileen knows it’s late, Genevieve knows it’s late, Bigfoot knows it’s late, the Elm Tree knows it’s late, that old guy sitting outside your bedroom throwing birdseed at your window and humming Abba songs knows
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Ridiculously unimpressed Yawning with his eyes as I Adorn the night with slurred syllables and my Noxious black smoke that he says smells like Christmas trees burning.
Roadkill Poem By Chris Major ———– Chris Major doesn’t want you to know anything about him because his bones are made of secrets and his muscles are made of enigmas and his skin is made out of interlocking puzzle pieces that sweat. He wants you to go here: http://whyvandalism.com/