stagnanTVowels

fig.2.13)These two holes are beside an effortless description of a soulless machine Let's lay waste to the comedy of modernism by watching poor Peggy, with her pistol of sadness and the sack of ape eyed tears that made of us each a burly home. Poor poor farm of malls shorn from the fields of food left at the end of town. Little box, aimless courageous little smoker smoking the oil, smoke. To the house on the water I'm going and I won't be home soon Going down on strangers, it's written here on the back of my hand The watch in the book is broken and that bird on my pillow is not Gone around this whole ship and the waves in the water are wet too I've crossed the sea just to tell you That I'm out here swimming alone Today's about over I'm going down there The way to the water is simple Even if it's been a bit of a mess before this Where there's ham and bricks of misogyny on the board of that tub there will be garlic in the stov

fig.75.19) We accept and conserve because its energy will become our energy as our energy becomes inert. "What about the egg and the milk?" "No, you don't want it to curdle before you get some ground around it," I told her. "Don't forget the flour." The garden was already busy this morning. The wet shock of the storm had made the stone path slippery and the leafs and the vines tossed hunterly greens around us and up into the canopy above. We were witnesses the menace as it unfolded around us with every step. That's when it dawned on me, I scooped up some mud and gravel with my two hands. The fibery moss that was mixed in with it felt delicate and honest. I compressed the wad of Earth into a tight little ball. I envied the extent to which the narwhals and hummingbirds shared this world. To my lump I added some shiny feathers fashioned from the petals of a sad cornflower. Then to finish, all it needed was a good snout. I found a bit of

fig.08.282) There's still an angel inside this typist's honest shovel No snow is visible among the bramble by the Park River. She stops to say, goodbye from inside her white carriage as it stands tall in the road. Paul seems small beside of it. Mud crunches underneath his heel as though it were half baked under this cold sun. For just a minute they stood beside one another, feeling as though everything was ill fitting and poorly timed. As though the road and the smoke from the flares would hide them from this world's continuing change. After hashish, this is what Paul will say to her, "Maybe we can talk about the fashion of our love. How it is that we've finished voting in separate elections that bear our lovers names. Names like the name's of cold wars that became over ripe sitting on a plate at the center of our shared round table." "No," she says, "my feet are sore. They're boot-sore from handing things over like it were noise

fig.65.838) faith and value are markers equal and yet less in extant than is spam  The world is a ball that's covered with fuzzy green and blue flaps that look like strips of warm puppet flesh from very far away. If it's dropped then the world sounds quietly like wool falling into the depth of nothingness. No one really knows what will happen when the world's sun goes too far away, but I think that I do. Its seas will shiver when they get cold of course and its garden's fruit will fly right up inside the nighttime of space. It'll be very much like a silvery trail of dust then. One that's made up of apples and brown coconuts. Eventually whole melons will spin off and they'll form their own brand new systems. The new moons will be peas and ladybugs will bob and carreen. Old lottery tickets, shovels and the husks of bees will be drifting quietly. If you're lucky for long enough and you keep holding on, then you'll see all of the other people of the