Here, the dream will google
A dead anger in a shrieking shirt
The iron shavings of reality
Will reject the figment of water
I walk into dusk
With a torso of peaches under my arm
Everyone knows that the talking box
Is full of green mouths
The talking box has been followed
By a horse on compass dividers
I expect the ivy covered walls
To glow red with anger
The first spear of inquiries
Reconnects with the massacre
this is a conscious attempt at the unconscious