Here, the dream will google

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