the destroyer > text > Chris Hosea


I want to hold your hand just hell of it

a hundred and one famous shells a field of male space

a projection of outside rinsed with breeze

that there is no escaping from the now here

so I should feel famous you are telling me because a celebrity

scores so many creative people in New York City

eavesdropping on a reaffirming bankruptcy

you are just covered in pearls from head to weary baby

earned exhaustion as social rod your squint smile

hit me all the way from Roebuck

I descend into a hole of coalblack

wherein I dig a spanking fool's gold

hotel suite of memory I display my confidence various

put in letters to you double you triple you

what kind music caring scientifically molds your mood

I have brushed so mint me make me limited too

you can dance that is when tempos alter light

and ships land the buildings being cleaned they are aglow

you have drunk you have smashed every last plate glass it was a false fire

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