From the other-sided, alee the valley; to give what you want —

says the mentor, irreparably. As pretense gets wrecked like a

photograph. As we haunt eternally.
It's hard to tell.

Do we?
Cold guy drifts in cold veins, this nightly swim.

So I overheard in LA, grab a shovel, LA is dead.

Nothing is Real. Lame, 
I know. Ask if there's proof.

Of life, if not for death's warming the carpet living room.
I'm officially bored with weed,

as if a backpack with nothing in it. As if I hope the world is done

sleeping in synchronicities. 
Are there heavenly capillaries networking? Blacked-out to neon.

Who is recording

our untitled hallucinations: washed up on the amethystine sea he plunged,
and what of the notes nailed to the roof with a gun? Days of

noise funneling into the hollows

of my hips. A lot of beating hearts out there. As they say, imitation

is suicide, you lowlife.