spoken so divided a division interpretation eyeballs crowd my safety zone intertwined around a never ending circle sailing ships surround her peninsula WICKED meaning>>>>> lets slip away showing off our creation my roots are shaky but they are MY roots hi five to your memory lapse logistics concealed the issue i ran up to the convenient store to buy a new mind turns out to be defective they issued a massive recall i fell asleep
we're in us darkly there were certain numbers upon a time licked knifey tongues got it up sharply incomprehensible nougat cryptic down the street steering side to side no it wasn't that there anymore more like what's gnawing in secluded coats of throat hyperventilating like a breeze where catch a cold catches on releases nozzle relapses windows does what we'd really like to do in our birthday suits
1. I've finished weeping the sun and climbing the stairs to a finger immersed in the blue of the city. I can feel my skin stretching over yours again. Music, pure ambrosia to those currents of mine which knowingly, willingly, choose to smother what is golden in the distance between trees. I've a sudden need to flap my leather wings with all the clarity of war on meat-hooked lips, psychological, astrological. And very much a windmill. It begins in the mirror, in the molten wonder of hedonists refused entry to a timeless world.
Cherubim with red hands...
2. They drool a strange kind of thunder, hiss pharoahs in order to persist in their young, particularly fragrant, delirium. Bones of truth without being a single syllable at sunset, memories like purrung from someone's frantic antennae. "Reality is invented by the incestuous," (a favorite maxim of mine) scrawled on the foreheads of habit, riding the bus alongside the many corridors of summer, what survived to contemplate murmuring geometries, the sneer of jazz. I've tapped out thick, foolish beginnings to chaos for gasoline, sold the laughter depicted by thieves beneath angry bridges. But everybody still comes to me for their 3 o'clocks, what I'll do to leave traces of genitalia on pillows wet like trembling strangers I met in slow motion.
Everywhere is hanging in a cave.
3. You are very Christ-like when my veins are thin, quiet, a neutrality nobody cares to notice. Or it doesn't matter to them in the least when my shadow casts off its democratic veneer. I was structured as a series of prefaces to dusty, secret backrooms, waves of light drunk with the power of perfectly-tailored suits and oil-slick ennui. The sorcery, nervous, discordant, wants to analyze the way you slip in and out of my television, leaving me to stare at worn, decrepit pictures of Frida Kahlo and wish I wasn't such a radio for erasures on the cusp of turning into sandy, warm, thighs.
4. I'm determined to be a mysterious rhythm in curves of breath stuck to the cold, hard, facts, little daydreams glimpsed quickly through a freshly-polished bakery window, where the tables are deeply in lust with pools of spilt coffee that drip lasciviously over their edges. Saxophones could grow in that loneliness. It's almost impossible to drive through the screams that persist in my motionless, black hair, Tokyos of young women sent by a notion to paint my empty bottles of rum. They left their individual testimonials scattered on throats bleeding the sorrow of every minute detail, despite the eyelids of earth and air.
Eavesdropping, shamelessly, amongst the clatter of business-day cups and loose change exchanged at a favorite, local, blue-collar, coffee shop, “Blue Horses: A Series of Events Seemingly Mundane” stumbles upon “real life.” It’s not the unvarnished truth “Blue Horses: A Series of Events Seemingly Mundane” records but a facsimile, the fleshed-out approximations of voice foreshadowed unerringly, rewound, and played back: “Don’t look now but isn’t that your long-lost love waiting for the bus across the street?” says a man, a shop keeper, who nudges his friend sitting next to him at the counter. A) His friend looks. He doesn’t see. Or doesn’t want to see. B) His friend doesn’t look and sees her forever as the girl he remembers, who left him because of the wrong words all the time. The friend turns to the shop keeper “She wanted words drizzled over her like honey on shortbread. Plagiarism killed that romance not silence like so many guys tell me killed theirs. The word mango for instance. I looked up this poem about mangos once…well, not about mangos per se but about the word "mango" itself it turned out… and tried to impress her with the beauty of this poem about mangos: ‘I love you much as I do the word mango dripping from my tongue’ I recited. She only got huffy when I asked her if she liked what I’d written. She paused, sensed it wasn’t mine, called it inauthentic, fraudulent, ersatz, plagiarized. 'Well, Christ,’ I snarled, ‘damn a man for trying to be romantic.’ ‘Words, if one is in love, flow like water down a brook’ she said. Always sounded like some book. She left me a week later, claimed I didn’t know who I was 'cause I copied poems.” A man, sitting on the other side of the shop keeper at the counter, chuckles then pauses, thinking it an odd conclusion. The friend just grins uneasily and blows calmly on his coffee, hoping to forget the entire affair. “Blue Horses: A Series of Events Seemingly Mundane” has overheard enough but keeps thinking about what he’s heard & the significance of the word mango. Has “Blue Horses: A Series of Events Seemingly Mundane” missed the point? Some errant thing has taken root. “Blue Horses: A Series of Events Seemingly Mundane” just sits there saying it over & over, softly like a prayer: mango mango mango mango mango mango mango mango.
shallow faces paint this way go by eavesdropping the largest erection yet under penalty of checkered tablecloth imprisoned by rainbows soft chewy nougat milling about smoking dopest dope being called fucked each hour inches by flesh glaciers peach fuzzy incredible strips like puzzles skinnydips off riverside with buxom pupils whiskified abysmal
I have many time talc storking Ramakrishna and the heather blades are some of the most damplive underlinks to strive the bilk out of the tall twill living gray upon the scram dial every brink a daybreak without squall such masterpiece is flyboy name brain and our act of craving nerves a blank divvying endorsement cold upon one's own bravura one's own gravitas
The time for come has changed. The come for time has changed. For change the come has timed. The has come time for change. For time has come the change. The change for time has come. The come for change has time. The time for has come changed. The change for come has timed. The come for change has timed. The for change time has comed. The come for has changed time.
2.
Obama Obama O bama Obama Oba ma Obama Obam a Obama Obama Obama Obama O
3.
Time changed has for come the. Comed has time change for the. Timed has change for come the. Timed has come for change the. Changed come has for time the. Time has change for come the. Come has time for change the. Change the come has time for. Change for time come has the. Timed has come the change for. Changed has time for come the. Changed has come for time the.
4.
O amabO amabO amabO amabO mabO amabO am abO amabO amab O amabO amabO
5.
The time for change has come time for change has come the for change has come the time change has come the time for has come the time for change come the time for change has the time for change has come
6.
O b a m a O b a m a O b a m a O b a m a O b a m a O b a m a O b a m a O
7.
The time for change has come. The time for come has not changed. The time for change has not come. The change for time has come The come for change has not timed. The time for change has come. The time for change has come and gone. And come. And gone. And
To vote down the enemy, we charged into heavy artillery fire. Minimizing casualties, our number-one priority. Exposure greater than ever before, even after our ports and our borders were secured against acts of terrorism, against foreign incursions.
Trying to understand, after all these years, why search-and-rescue teams always had to fight their way uphill and across treacherous moats just to win hearts and minds that were not disposed to being won. Enemy cameras watched our advance from the top
of the walls, behind the gleaming coils of razor wire, unable to distinguish our regular troops from flesh-and-blood human beings. The arrest of suspected fifth-columnists cheered us for the moment, and we fought our way upward and onward,
across the pyroclastic flow, ground so hot our boots would melt, thirty-four barefoot runners from the Seychelles, the last to fall.
sprung up a collection of images invoking venus legs spread wide insane glorious moans of passion ignite overflowing entranced her hips swallow him whole cosmic dance she rolls glistening bodies intertwine exploding synchronized squirting
I said to him why not become an action figure (postmortal fame) I said to him omit active ingredients (addiction blame her) I said to him the white light is a shadow (fractalism) I said to him my shadow is dark light (touching surface) I said to him genetic extremes define communal median (dry mainstream) I said to him blasphemia is that land inside (quiescence) I said to him reflection echoes pasts yet to happen (nostalgia) I said to him do not worry (projection) I said to him I need a cigarette and think it over (alive)
I said to her who sold you on suicide (a crucifix, sharp edged) I said to her shut out the blackbird (choice, blemish) I said to her the cushion was a white tree (smooth light) I said to her my silhouette belongs (carved placement) I said to her communal longing (seen) I said to her blasphemed pet nouns might zap the flesh (once quiet) I said to her some elements are tiring (affixed to history) I said to her whose tirade (lay-by) I said to her give me a moment to line up the dream with this (relive)
I sink my teeth into the blue of your body is full of tourists. The walls are full of insects. There is a sign over your bed that is unintelligible. The yard is full of tourists. The walls of your body reveals that you kept in the basement. Someone has left the back door unlocked. For some reason I never come around any more. I blame the French. They were drawing a smile across your face with a knife. The sun has been replaced with yawns. The yard is full of tourists. The walls of your body reveals that your library contains more tears than anything. I felt like a bird whose flesh was made of mouths. I propped a ladder up against your window, but when I climbed up to look in on you, your All of the loud speakers have been discovered by the flash-bulbs of the dead. Some part of me is disappointed that the execution was terminated after someone unplugged the river. The meaning too often relies on an understanding of the method. Your bodies are overcome with loss. Are night sweats a sign over your bed?
how does it feel to be loved? a note written beneath underground railroads no reciprocation disbelief stained eyes lets ponder transparent emotion i planted a tree in your memory configuring all the possibilities swaying back and forth cold wasted toxic smiles seasons passed babe blacked out those moments concealed a dream an era a question unanswered her leaves changed color invisible tears fell like rain micro burst laying awake i felt you there nonexistent devotion he threw her to the vultures she meant nothing and everything unexplained loyalty her o in needles convey intense passion blasted let me tell you a secret whispered headed down around over its all so sudden popping pills her truth serum hiding behind walls shaded green dancing with death i was wet behind the ears you taught me fear i looked up all along the answers were written on the ceiling
stalked through dreams a corner silent her mid drift erased sensibility he hides in bushes wacking off toward disdain her cleavage sedates him from afar she roams onward follow the leader tapping her shoulder 360 degree turn around crystal meth ate her face he screamed why did the world stop spinning
masked women stared down steps of exile at nights wiped out turned around calculated and fragile - flood of metal of midnight - perverse rumbling voice of narrow streets rolled forward never ceasing - throbbing cathedrals light-spitting red rooves inhabitants expenses bathed in colours of tumultous moon
blood-hound on track of eyes bereft of sleep - fingers slip from minute to minute with longing - hallucination of balance dropping down like skeletons noiselessly with untouched words - burst through the vibration of mystery - dance of notes violently onward - waves in a cradle of machine-wheels flung into the intoxication of rouge storms
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