Squirrel brainwashed Squire murders mega-pixel salon owner kills boy 3 Girl six
Signing wave upon wave of fanatic amber grain Conclusions alter mighty Joe Young & his echo In Umatilla orange grove
The soda was flat
I came to a closet & split *
Too much Pop boner edicts for a good sled along bumpy ride In Florida The turnpike appeared to have said True things To a follicle or mass
Come winter &
Avec the sluices Between townies *
Ranch house among ping pong native colonials Doing disco still Meeting chow hound while South Beach & Atkins survive Mass grave at lake side condominium Assign evening a gloomy casting
Treacherous housewives Cross blvd
I hope I am Good *
Ma & Pa’s ‘60s Present:
Bird with a Difference
A horn Round the Globes
Hobbled translucent goading ‘70’s watermark archive seduces Spa in the den only lunar possesses Elixir gone mad
I goof with the signal
The cable’s my guide *
Reasons for living:
AUTO MAKERS bleeding stock market dough Is not good enough a poem [Includes brackets]
Genetically altered irradiated vegetables May feed increased numbers Is next to godliness
Docent thing provokes lines catalytically alive A dream out of matter Continues
Open can misses lid
The cat has to limp *
To sponge vegetables clean of earth & insect feces
My father said some things like light kills germs. He was an economist who rose to the occasion constantly sans brass fanfare and bearing gifts instead.
My father loved his own jokes although less than who we each were, are, will be. My father was in love and spoke in love and practiced looking, hearing, saying something, slipping soft donations to the unsuspecting, and erasing each such gesture by the sound of peace.
My father was an eminent decider and the brain in him contaged its way to children as he matched his life partner who spoke perfect philosophese. She lambed his hurt and she was equal to his notice as her recognition laced with shared discernment made it also to felt speech.
My father said some moments into loving history. Tamed ferocity of feeling in his heart, translating beauty to a field and sharing every small percentage of the acreage. Wanting, seeking, cherishing the moment and repeating it, as moments in their way would constantly and faithfully respond.
The way time tagged me is beyond my devices. Art chose me to collide in the mortal corridor I stained the mirror red Love taught me God Life happened along to divide I carved dawn from twilight extracting the soul shimmer and divine quintessence
mystery occasion what's yr intention abrupt reason purple moccasin strange letter in the midst of waiting for in spite of fathered in like a mother dearly dearly it's early in the morning so red the position of soul in the upper chords the telepath's bone feel it there feel it at the altar portions of bread and portions of soup intrigue at the foot of the stairs
The precision that goes on in specific moments throughout this poem is vivid, interesting, and hinges are felt. Really stimulating to feel connections and segregations alike. Thanks, Ray!
that threw you in the river on and on the grayshattered thud or else in bars countrywestern manacled biscuits and gravy ramshackly o tremble into a chainlinked scene doglike navy blue midnight machiney plays hank williams skipping shitfitting like outrageous cramps an armor unmanifested unbirthed ungirthed unfeltfor underestimated cruelty goes like this do de do da de de do petrified know what's giving under like knees you've felt in backyards of your dreams mathilda
claws from clouds the terrible landscape of her eyes is limbo or in blue we raid the chain our hearts beating monsters down by the river camera in tow guided by voices split the carnation in two memory unfolds like pigeons thoughts implode beater cadillacs beef explodes red raw viscera of liquor flows over a multi-faceted scene brownbagged synchronized swimming yes magic tragician lets go the wings and those items you'd never spent on reciprocity of chains on chains such loaded dreams of folds of resurrections of melodious monkness that little angels go crazy with
Mirage curls on sand. Peacock feather chariots inside her eyes.
Another deconstructed squiggle passes by (it must be the third listening that causes it to sting the air like that), and I light another cigarette in honour of its breathy lexicon. Mechanical hurt, insect jazz in my mouth, the thin sheen of ice beginning to obscure the intricate anomalies that adorn her blue flesh from the soles of her feet to the tip of her bald head.
This patch ahead is all bossa-nova, a midnight sauntering casually through the doorway as if its spasms had never been felt by any of us, its geology soft and mysterious. A gun is drawn and fired randomly into a crowd of vowels outside, their twists and turns animated by whatever is perceived to be credible when the King has finally been swallowed by suggestive glances from ancient ghosts. But, they have not acquired souls yet, so they cannot die. They barely even notice the barrage fired their way.
None of this communicated anything to her spine as she laid there, prostrate on the string of skulls, enjoying her last few moments here on this plane of existence. An imploding sun an unimaginable distance away had freed her molecules, and she relished the thought of something new. She had been assigned here for millennia now, and it was simply time for her to go.
"I like the way you've come to bleed into me over the years. I can take you with me, and..." she trails into silence as I place a marble statuette of a scorpion on her paling, red lips.
Her gaze has become a league of criminals, purer and purer with each revealed truth. She licks lasciviously at the scorpion's tail dangling near her mouth, and an array of minor-thirds cascade to life, coming to rest on trees of inference to cheer granite and learn how to proceed righteously without tipping off the army of diamonds who want them back. Iam transformed into a wink, where money and consciousness have become one river, the place where the poor, toiling aquatic classes compete to fellate the grammar of dry land.
Interessante... do you remember these verses of Ferlinghetti, Raymond? "...of this astounding life down here and of the strange clowns in control of it"
All night lying sprawled near a killed comrad and his contorted mouth turned towards the full moon and his flushed hands inside my silence I wrote letters full of love
I never became so attached to my life
Cima Quattro, december 1915
translated by G. Monte; many thanks to Annie Huth.
a contagious affectation scrambling my attention outrageous prices her steps thud in the dim-legged hall that night that the porcupine had crept like icycles through the fog
i cannot know what's on your mind it's hard to feel significance somersaulted petrified the word outside is as cold as the well gathered there
pharmaceutical angels are pharmaceutical angels a voice in the recovery room goes insane like a stranger
invisible in delightful town walking impenetrable under blank lights obtain sainthood in tinted windows smoky prisonhood of bars on bars ghostly glow of grates steaming meanwhile i'm dreamin' vulnerable offcourse like a racehorse seal my lips with airplane glue stew with me dismal let's leave out any all explicit details save for cardinal boss pussy ex-catholic dented tragic fenders rust blots and rollercoasters strangely acid the black angel comes looking all sick looking limited like grieving mothers in tents
stillness reloads face of moon on monitor smoking hatchet grass that clocks've notched half-assed remove her from this trance remove the glue of those've passed on legs too stiff to stand de-seated and defeated cuckoo under nerve-ended klieg lights bobbing apples of voodoo towns plugged into consciousness a whiskey monocle feeling screwed whirlpool of sandhanded sadness
Spring axioms so much, a yellow sworn to metaphysics
(diagonal with rigor, parts of famine are light-speed's day and midnight)
Very clustered and cannibal: what are lilac circles of emotion?
An unblemished cube can reply, "You are molten and therefore not really a part of sex on this world."
Liberty is almost close to spinning music like abstract etceteras. Sulphur's heart can wear Mandarin collars with teeth sailing for beige lipstick and eyes infected with subterranean calculus
(headless toned effort ruts the weather's zero: pleats of mirage added)
The television's soul is puffy, an eightball oasis
--torrential plasma loved from my ear's sick machine gurgles back through, "I refuse to murder for your reality," zones to scream red off as time after dark burns dragons from the gutter and nods the blackened faces of men--Atlantis awaiting the one flesh cosmology she wears sabotaged of juicy corals that flicker ascent to express vision: everything has never been in love twisted of factories and a tree's slow pulse--high shadows desire in all directions or phantom the carnival like pleasure wets punctuated with the beat inside elbows as a leap from promised decay plateaus our only reward stolen by watery lips--haste to reverse the evening's monkey loaded into kisses a kind of dusk and is logic on the catwalk mask holds a red-light district after arrival's word let white really nylon the uterus with compassion: each corporeal tips the sky of significance saying, "Crimson, give me streets that will negate each other"--extant to interpret throbbing
He has sunshine blared on unlocking chromosomes, porn from carrion skies
(plague spines off the rain's fetish for mutilating my legendary simile cock)
Western lands fragmented on your shadow's groove: liquor factions artfully a shade of lungs melt violin ribs into the stench of irrational numbers
(myopia's passing fortune is an authentic order into youth's jazz and jewel funhouse: a purplish dress glaciers after sound's surprising tip of finger ossifies my tongue)
Ravishing over your arched power, the leer answers only in branches. Theory stuns this message, a bit archaic glistening on the surface of, "Iam always mistaken for a mist of silver collars on blank memory." Sunny radar in the nothing is true forever carved as desire, devotion to a coalescing god who knows every artery we are saying.
in which a walking away sans footsteps or embodiment Let us blues onto the brick fist of another online bass lyric that last long Egg she's too blood orange to admire what's old crust under hiss my fingernails well, Lord morning into nausea tiled anon mosaic onto which pieces she squares she calls me sweet story or bathroom fixture daddy memory a-one, two, one with one for knobs she wants bacon slick hanging & dank, boots & hats to turn: on: hot on cold to mix & run awhile lukewarm then off again when she in beauty says off that 's what's the matter with
un-understand lost liquid as amber as a pig's foetus or visceral cursive now it is here exposed to sun's slant rays to dismissals secreting history's fisticuffs empowered by days hard to feel would eat dinner slopping hither and thither mannequin-esque it's all that harsh may that roots up shoestrings' yukon licorice sidewalking delusions of grandeur stop signs are trouble staked to stand disguised as martyrs white and red disguised as is lost is gone is dead is end
Anxiety can be about missing the chalkmark of presumed perfection. She would fear the daylight would not shine enough. By knowing the Platonic place against the wall, she notarized mistakes as they occurred, and recognized the difference between bliss and threadbare faultlines. When we talked there was a row of patterns, each one themed around her disappointment. Once depth showed its insufficiency. Once inductive reasoning hosted a marginal distinction between summa cum and flowerbeds not full grown. There were so many things to talk about. I have a tendency to see neutrality as wealth. I look through rain and there is solace in the rubbed branch lines against a silken airlight. She was soft, her skin sweetened a place the fiddle would not reach. I often broke the silence if that means something to you. No matter how the flowers got here, they would be hers always.
Saturation still to do with marketing a thing, enlistment of component parts, including sky
faulty fingers lead to risky hands break apart the noise on the horizon the wail of metal neighborhood expands and contracts opens legs like scissors
there's this dream i'm in it's always her birthday there i'm always moving furniture out of my eyelids into the drawing room menacing shag carpet drank some bad fuel
utopian nausea in our headlights stains stains the bedding an out of sorts expression pudding stains the bedding struggling releasing i'd rather be ahead of me in several places
any if Susie a daisy was when i plucking pluck, pluck, pluck went i into Ye Olde Non Words of love me not me green loves she not she now bubbles among froths of homes' Michigan blankets lakeside neural conjuring gone fingers & spells an a-u-t-o man lame from what running to ward off the Watusi again camo backpath the duck! blind silence of shotguns outgun the gunmetal Lethean shore passed the nonreturnable moment of snare our quarry (now obvious) bell- beats away the cartoon canine tee-he-hees his glee
how they picked their role-model companies how you would launder money and hide it how they help each other overcome their personal weaknesses by relying on the other’s personal strengths how corrections were made by striking out a faulty passage in ink and stamping the correction in the margin how private detectives make up stories on the spot and have to adjust how to force people to download PDF documents (or other formats) rather than how he got drunk and threw up how the therapist evaluates and interprets dreams phantasies etc. in the absence of a personal analysis how everything actually started how to avoid disastrous (and embarrassing) how ice cream came to be how to tackle instead how you became a travel editor how they see them of how they interpret their gestures how to traverse it how your mother and everybody knows you were how she came to write it how the "inertia of history" how to actually construct the park what materials you will need and how to acquire how the various borderline thinking mechanisms work how amphibians contribute to human medicine how much the Air Force truly knew about the UFO phenomenon in the 1960's how to succeed in science how fragile he really is despite all how pissed you were how a sleeve should look like how the primitive envious feelings are revived how people see how her life drifted into drug use and general lack how he runs upstairs at midnight after a new show to read the reviews how changes in the grammar of a unit within how a university responds how things got so messed up would be a small book
On May 3 1978, Gary Thuerk, a marketer at the now-defunct computer firm Digital Equipment Corporation, sent an email to 393 users of Arpanet, the US government-run computer network that eventually became the internet. It was the first spam email ever.
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