Old grapes sing hard inside this shallow cup while hens teeth whisper sweetness to the fog.
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Slip it in, not so vague nor lost just slip it right in.
fig. a6) Laugh at the seduction of my thing, its evil is still as sweet.
The drawer with my business can be opened by angels. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone. I'm sitting in a chair. I'm waiting at home. I'm alone in this room that's quiet and tall. The door's shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of this experience is standardized and it's limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god. None of whom are in here with me now. I'm battered and whipped and tossed at the straits. I am left of this shore. Alone with this cold and as wet as a cake, I am grand. I'm as a horny as a day fowl. If I could be plucked from this grit and these senseless old stones at my gather then I'd be gone far away. I'd be warm with the few. Turn around, turn around, I'd be gilt and not bare. I'd be hungry for lungs filled with life rather than rooms mired with people. This knife of my hands, this flesh of my wound, this cock of my bird, this ditch of my words, if I could be gathered then I would. I'd be taken alive and worried to work. I'll swim this whole length to be fat at the hands of your butter. I'll be wet before the days of your May. Instead sitting random and as hard as a chair. Limitless and alone I am diminished and hassled with the sharp through these awful ears. Buried in the sweat of your cheek with the tongue from my terrible lies, my cancer, and the cause of my eyes. I am struggle with the burning fingers of a saintless prayer.
What say the fallen in theVestibule, late to dinner Warm as a garden chairYes 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…
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.