House
small teeth for grey dogs and great teeth for smooth dogs – things get tricky
after the two blend together, things get complicated. Your sense of muscle
control goes into spasmodic modification and that’s as good as two remote
controls pointed at the same, wrong device. The sound goes up but that’s
because they did it manually like they do in the olden days before yellow hair
took a drastic improvement for the worse. I’ll tell them to reap what they can
while the drudgery has its gunfights over the mountainside because of light
orchestration. These are the words of a lovely woman wading in her own ideas of
Honduran putrefaction. Poseurs want to rock around the tribunal and bop along
to the inquiry until the poet slams down the gavel for the high and upheld
judge. The cow bells are pontificating.
The Mr and Mrs Cheque of
Death Introversion
Amelioration and
Leaning Towers
Art in Lands of Flush Skid
Row
Print over the Last Object Suspend
over Brandy
Red All
Over
White All
the While
Blue All
Cooking
Then Esquire Goes
to Hell and Back
This song belongs in the scrapheap because of all the
guitar riffs and excess hair that’s trapped between bars. Reuben spins Amelia
Whiteout, spins her, reads her boyfriend like a bad party, opens legs and
influences pedestrians as they waste their waspish remarks on valedictorian hat
stands. True enough shouters will shout and callers will call but politeness
will be put politely away, tucked in some gents swanky pocket for the next Bocce
tournament. Attention comes and sits with the man on the red hill with his
black Oni while his last ditch attempt goes flapping against Suni Sands. You
know you’re in trouble when the tropical island has you out on your ear while
the sweepers start to matter more than the things they keep clean.
sequential performance footprints
isolated
the wind let’s out sleep to
muslim friends
turn away let
the storm blink
dashboard lights control me control
them
breathtaking specials menu
lumps of deletion past
in pasteboard
here are some thoughts intensified
here in
misery
Jetpacks are good girls who think of LPs and in doing so
lose all sense of self-control and just wing up into the sky with rushes of
superfluous star fluid. I don’t know how much will brighten my juice so best
get a job before the moon lets me down with browbeaters. I only have enough
time to respect one discipline at a time, I don’t know about this happening in
a Japanese garden though. I prefer crowded avenues filled with gold prospectors
rigged to blow off some steam. They all disappear with OK versions of goodbye
and ad revenue. Some writers live on a calendar-based diet but the rest leave
that grind behind the grid irons of much too late. Reconciliation is a care
comparison and all things besides because you don’t pursue Roman mythology or
concentrate your specious meanings on Latin. Say something tiresome of trees.
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