davey g. johnson:
Ethereal Newborns, Twitterpated Avian-Types
davey g. johnson:
No Shit, Hemlock Sucker — I Will Gouge Your Lifeless Eyes Out
davey g. johnson:
When It Comes to Him, She Always Leads With Her Chest
davey g. johnson:
Both Would Argue the Other's Denial Was Palpable
davey g. johnson:
He Dragged The Answers Across His Skin, Kept What Caught
davey g. johnson:
Her Iconography Got Bent All Out of Shape
davey g. johnson:
He Strode High Bridges Just Fine, Claustrophobia Kept Him Out of Culverts
davey g. johnson:
The Central Valley Had Smelled of Pipe Tobacco, This Room Reeks of Marine Ozone
davey g. johnson:
Eighteen Outside Watsonville Was a Premonition
davey g. johnson:
Photons Are Really Packets of Freeze-Dried Blood