Chase Confess

Fissioned in fusion. Loose in
Sound, could be tree spree. Not
Making sense, but it’s a
Song. Play and blame guitar.

Pistol on plain. I’m fiddled and
feigned. Complain, but walls don’t
Offer console. Pour wine into old
Bowl. Old seats have figure out-figured.
Drive west, then north, or wherever.
Too lazy to write my letters.

Ski out if flame licks, insane’s flicks.