Amnesia Grok- I’m sitting here on a Saturday afternoon & I’m reading about the end. As in THE END.
Poetry by Amnesia Grok- That night, I dream of the perfect son, & I dream of what he’d be like. Come next morning, I find that Dream Child still in my head, & he’s taking online classes & demanding piano lessons!\
Poetry By Amnesia Grok “&few people realize how the Moon is made of pure dry ice. & those in the” know by & large choose not to talk about it, for all the obvious occultic reasons, I suppose.
By: Amnesia Grok -This kid shows up on my doorstep the other day, Just another ranting crackhead waking me up on a Sunday morning? Or is it something more?
Amnesia Grok reflects on a tattooed friend