Unacceptable thorns line my private, licentious rose. My rose is a carnal red and her cardinal virtue is that she contains a world. Stars everywhere but in my eyes as I bring the toasted apocalypse into fruition. I used to live in a jar. Now I live in a cottage on the shores of Lake Forgetfulness. Roses are a language unto themselves. I cultivate roses because I cannot hold back the sea. The sea, for his part, clutches my windpipe.
Miniature Moon 