zeus hurdles over himself, and cripples the meadows and soils with his lightning bolt hand. children play cops with rocks, ironic, and cut themselves on shale.

the badlands have not yet begun to kiss their living counterparts with reciprocity. this distate is mutual, and the gag reflexes are mass graves, millions deep. the scent is covered by nuclear waste as it seeps through the dirt

saturating the flesh like kerosene or patchouli. an irremovable, oily stench that identifies just what type of waste you will turn.

gods are a past time, and they left us a message in fate. there is none scrawled in the ancient mounds of south america or the stones erected into monuments of idleness and constant thought.

we found the hotel room our father bastardized us for. there were liquor bottles and torn panties strewn over it, but no one was there.