I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 14: Snow White

And there I was.

Mouthful of mothball shaped medicines,
masticating to the manic musical of the masterbation of our menstural millenia.

Up through the right, as I pushed down my left,
nostrils become nemesis to nostalgia night and night again.

Credit cards kill, yet can't be as cancerous as a carnivore.
Canines which carve curiously throughout cocaine cured corridors.

In insipid instances, why must one insist in intentional idiosyncrasy.
Idle measures increase the chance of inert indecisions, while powdered ice suffocates the inverted room infested with inverted introverts--interested only in instigating the ideal life insurance.

Breathe in the booze of the beaten babe.
Biting down bare fisted in backdoor basements, leaving banshees to bid you adieu.

Adieu my dear, abducted by the adulterated anthologies of our asterisk ridden age, I will end.

And now I am here.

Cocaine does not kill. Ignorance does.