Fig. 0897) Flaccid Favorites
Things long missed in their teaching, be they still or be they quiet, our time is lessened nonetheless. Someone has to steer this anchor, sail it all the way to the bottom when the shops turn themselves over and their queues are carless as everyone’s gone home to vote. I’m tired of these convictions. Their pace has only become more dark as the night continues to keep itself outside.
Where can an angry man get himself a drink, where indeed?
Tonight, Fear is out driving and it's little car is made for twisty passes that loop around craggy rocks. Let's talk about words and foreign papers with pictures of trees. Let’s read about sounds rattling our windows. Like buttons on bees, there's green on frogs and hope inside the time that's within all the unopened boxes.
Sitting off in the shed by myself. I’m waiting for the church bells to ring their foul victory. In my today-brain, I'm a little bit worried and blue. There’s so much wet to go with this cold as it weathers around me, rolling like piss for my little jar, "my bed breaks, right along with the other trains in the rain. A fire breaks out and twenty five people are told, there's a pile of rubbish that's caught fire in the corner, going out of control.”
Our drapes might be burned up and the carpets stained from this soot and the flame but our sex is golden and as ripe as a casino can get.
Where can an angry man be alone with his guns, the kids raise their hands. This hose is dry, this door is blackened, these steps are flavored with ash and plastic. After the fire has gone, it seems like I'm never awake. “There’s a rose that’s being favored by a clown footed bore. There’s a rose in every doorway. There’s a rose for every door.” It's easy to get lost inside of your clock as the mayonnaise works itself out. Driftless in the trashy snow. It should be buried like a canary bird hiding its scissors. This tiny box has no bright satin bows, only some stripes and loose foil paper to announce its presence.
Back when the kids roamed Paris at night with their pistols loaded, this one was inventing the art of rope for holding up their pants. Is this asymmetric Information? Is this where a million untrained leafs can practice the art of umbrella, where the slow relief of a hiss happens briefly. Then, once the rain has quietly stopped and everyone has survived this too, then we'll see that our tree of reason is busted up. Our change has left our small pockets even as our feet have dried in the soft glow of the bower's tiny flowers.
Sitting off in the shed by myself. I’m waiting for the church bells to ring their foul victory. In my today-brain, I'm a little bit worried and blue. There’s so much wet to go with this cold as it weathers around me, rolling like piss for my little jar, "my bed breaks, right along with the other trains in the rain. A fire breaks out and twenty five people are told, there's a pile of rubbish that's caught fire in the corner, going out of control.”
Our drapes might be burned up and the carpets stained from this soot and the flame but our sex is golden and as ripe as a casino can get.
Where can an angry man be alone with his guns, the kids raise their hands. This hose is dry, this door is blackened, these steps are flavored with ash and plastic. After the fire has gone, it seems like I'm never awake. “There’s a rose that’s being favored by a clown footed bore. There’s a rose in every doorway. There’s a rose for every door.” It's easy to get lost inside of your clock as the mayonnaise works itself out. Driftless in the trashy snow. It should be buried like a canary bird hiding its scissors. This tiny box has no bright satin bows, only some stripes and loose foil paper to announce its presence.
Back when the kids roamed Paris at night with their pistols loaded, this one was inventing the art of rope for holding up their pants. Is this asymmetric Information? Is this where a million untrained leafs can practice the art of umbrella, where the slow relief of a hiss happens briefly. Then, once the rain has quietly stopped and everyone has survived this too, then we'll see that our tree of reason is busted up. Our change has left our small pockets even as our feet have dried in the soft glow of the bower's tiny flowers.
An ersatz bomb of NITROgen from COLLAgen once missed under the red RED rug / it's BOOT TO THE HEAD
JUST SWEATing SOME sweet stuff / getting WETTER and wetter the better your letter's get / When clearly, it's raining on the LAWN where it's BOOT TO THE HEAD
AS HOMELESS A FISH, as AWAKE as I FEEL. I'm AS LOST as I AM, as NAKED and doomed iN this light of MY room
There's bunnies with GUNS / Sitting in doorWAYS smoKING
Bachelors with BEERS, a squelched DEER and a squirrel / Gorgeous as two cows farting, arting, question marks
It's upside down like a frown or FALLING DOWN LIKE A BELL from THE wall of cardboard kittens in the light of this weird gloom / WHERE buffalo in mittens sing praise and tie their shoes, there's BOOT TO THE HEAD
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