Skip to main content

Dun before

Cast your ballads and the pickles might come cast them in and some might pick their thumb

Like all the people that can't stand still, one or all of them.
That I'm broken is how it feels to me but I don't care.
Oh I certainly do care.
I don't even joke about it.
I care so much it hurts.
I feel wickedly close to wretching on the sofa.
If it were warmer today than I might even feel sick.
But it's cool. It's a perfect late September
The noise of it is itself a sort of reluctant vibrancy. Still it's deeply sympathetic gravy.
Our concept of history isn't so very different either. Of course painting isn't the only thing that we can do. It's merely a strategy which allows for considerable analysis within the constraints of being us or more like us then we think. These are the things that we're talking about.
By way of rosie, her ring and her horn. Moisten these blind fingers they're dry from indulgence, from searching through scorn.
Yes, we're cranes, cameras of mass.
But we're louder than mass for sum.
Crazy in the tall grass slowly.
You're Caesar, with anklet, thong, and the probe. Let's be gone now, uncertain let's go.
Tonight might be terrible.
Let's fly away away rose.
By way of these steps up and those steps to the left.
Let's make us believe instead of not build. -
Holly doesn't want to see you so clear now.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.


Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…