FORGE FOR GEVERY

NEARLY-DEAD / GETS-READ: MIND THE STOATS, AND TUCK YOUR CHIN. The dodgy hands, the cursed old pegs in the poppy stands. They say, “To live occident proper lad, you need not gold nor marble slab.” The initiates bedizen chalky threads, smudged among soot and half-fed dreads. (Spectred-Toast, Ballads of Lumps.) Moth-bitten manifest of those evenfall grafters, blessed in backtalk, LOST IN LURCH. Cursed to flex in fog ‘til the city forgets their pseudo.