Stung my eyes with smoke. Clinging to a hung of coral, muddy, numb. That's me in the back among black bandages, heated by my own decomposition. "They don't remember my name there, but you push that yellow light like slush through my cells, and now goddamnit it's raining posies across my dick!" Tying it off, foaming as the mouth moistens with moth thumbs. Om. Or saviors too almost lose sullen followers to those wars of sodden farmers at mulch with the chum. In early thirteenth century Nova Scotia, serfs under rule spray basic furrows with fish heads. They grew into moss the way asimuth peppered your epigrams with a condescending salt. I know you like this; you like it in you. You're still leaving your footprints there, to stale in snow so dark David Rounds has to fight to read. Instead, I walk out to the old field, on ice warm and still blushing, and almost tumble right into the gash a new school left. "And here, where I learned an early erasure, on Oberlin Avenue fat and acne'd and in a black t-shirt, now churned under and gaping, now these snow-laced walks are no part of me, now seperate and objective like similes geld drives and lanes and courts aching to be in New England." With a book of xerox poems under my arm, taking them to John's because there's a tinfoil fold of four hits of acid between Chris Franke. "And the dead too curl their toes in a frost they can't feel; they testify to your dissolution, the way it ululates like telephones and sacrament, the way they cascade unquiet through tangled dreams; all the bubbles popping when they hit the surface, bathwater brown. " You're going to blow. At this moment, to preserve memory, this handhead machine is rubbing its own boards with small doses of charge. Are Sam and Mindy electric, as in what spark of his makes her laugh? I fall low like buildings growling to keep the houses in the suburbs busy. "A link taster." You have to draw harder on joints. I crack as I stand. Half an hour to go, and still ogling the support of space empathizing around me. What a shame. That hole in the street by the cemetary scares me. She believes that the dead will return to feed on us. Tearing apart warm strips of fried chicken; breading crackles, and you hear in the room that salty smack of nutrition. "Shesleeps off a sex hunger for guns and rum. With a xerox book of prachment under your arm. You just happen to know the arcs and endearments of such shallow composition, as well as mock wool when churches force mean annuals astride a mop's throat. As she negotiates satiation, the comforter rasps against unshaved legs. It is warm, raw. A pride of harm. " Being an adult means not killing those that hurt you. Tell yourself you'll start again. Less selection tempts keeping an open mind about bandaged gag reflections furnished athwart rows of surplus cornice eventually. Towels. Lots simmering beneath immersed and desperate sunshine. You reel your hand there. Does play have a face? Her clitoris sifts down your throat. Took and takes it, is is is. I am a test-toyfor inanimate objects that fuck.
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