Wherein Young Master K's Problem w/ Handsome Leda is...

fig.25.32) rot in the hutch is not a bunny's dream

Then after drying all of their feet on the grass the swans get bullish along the path. "So goeth the code, say I, away-away-up-up-down-down-left-right-enter-start today. There's the fucked up holiday bullshit with the forks that are following us here." They're always the first to be dressed as they stand there in yellow, then as a barber and at last it's as if they're the same terrible priests that they always has been. Some of them are mostly aimless and some are like goldenrod with the scrub and the thorn that they've strewn around. Still, I find this to be funny and it's rhapsodic like it's been filled up with tipsy bunnies. There's the epic daisy, the sheep in the farmers barn that are waiting patient and worn for the aimless cartographer and his flatulent and waffled butt to finally appear. It is for him that we'll lift this glass tonight.
"You can't sing away the old rhymey Fatty Arbuckle fantasies with muses and stones, nope. The days too late away for that. The days another day today and it's bitter folk are its own and they themselves are bold. Green goes, Sing I, green goes the ghost..."
There's the anal triangle with the Horus Eye and it's illumination gesture at the bottom of the jug, they're either singing along together in the rain or they're just effed uppity eff and up-upnessed. Just like every people that are everywhere, it's the old drums and the broken homes that make the softer music that we'll hear soon enough. If they can't speak cheaply then they'll do so loudly. If they can't then still they will, even if they never should. Because they're not full of range the every people have very little nuance for themselves, this is what the every people don't understand. They've got no appetite for their own perspective, for the actions that they too often lose down the losing hole. The every people being everywhere those people that are making too much noise for themselves, that is. But the judgement of bone is silent here and the solemnity of dirt has for itself no want of a phone with which to call you or you or you instead. It does not vote nor wait for fingers upon which to crawl about. I thinks that it must enjoy a simple sandwich still, a treat at the Midway. Maybe something typical rather than something that's hammered or banged geographically to be extraordinaire.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

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