Day 184/365

Kvlt as fuck,
his wrists drip blood
without being sliced.
Skin so pale
and hair so black,
he appears in photos
as pen and ink drawing.
His amp hisses
when it's unplugged
and doesn't stop.
His Vortex is almost ironic.
He inhales the fumes
as he writes the set list on his hand
with a Sharpee.
And the death growl
echoes
as if through Hangar 18.


ewr