junk trudged through emo city, purchase wiping blood from his face. blood dropped down from the kids in the skyscrapers above him who were slitting their wrists and hanging their arms outside the windows. nobody knew why they did this, medical people thought it had something to do with my chemical romance radio station.
mr elektric head was staring out the skylight at the stars. they blinked like angels eating glass. footsteps under lightbulbs. steepled fingers like a prayer devoured. “i didn’t think you were heathen like me,” marigold told roland. we are ever seeking ecstasy in the eyes of a tiger tornado.
move to trash. trash and junk wander down prophetic hallways. jars of flies buzzing on shelves. if you have happy dreams, that means you are going to die. the rain woke kimba up.
kids in the cold never do what they are told- the radio played waylaid tunes with mystic runes. a hologram projected a conical picture of the band. the lead singer was the wackest wizard you ever saw. plastic skeleton bones hung around his neck, clinic
spinning red pentagrams on the dancefloor, click
roulette wheel eyes, boney thighs.
“prick a star from the sky and feed it to me,” she desired. the taste of a star was searing cold. the petite prince floated away.
