Idols peering sideways, forthrightly downcoming,
flickering moths of melting butter flying madly cunning.
The plasma has parentheses
that sadness wants to see
without wearing its glasses
or masking lasting grudges
(A nearsighted knight stays up all day like a narcissist finick)
Well I'm not the master and I'm not the puppet
but I'm not dead yet so this shit isn't finished
