SMOKE SIGNALS FROM A BURNING CENTIPEDE: Manhole lid handcuffs stifle blacktop cadence. Throat song mimics your soul being hanged at the gates of a hollow Gehenna. Innocence is arson is innocence. A conscience true to dread. The best friends i've ever had i've me through taxidermy. Canker spores smearing omnisexual gelatin like a puzzle ready to wear so it can't help but be solved. Centipede effigy fragrance welcomed with wilding inhales. Scorpions are the rubber of my intestine tread. I thought we were legion. "Only when the jade will back". Hive-eye locked on the burning from whence it came. I play every face because occasionally it's better being someone else, even if it's always me.