Poppin and rocking out with the shocking news of people not along
Are they digging dirt, shifting mirth, Eating in a pop-up park
Booking from, a booking dot prom
Glass slippers rented cheep
Angry ground tilted into the surrounds, lark heated pool
Nazareth and his bloody teeth seem almost like heaven now
As sold becomes double the rent, triple the whalebone spoons
Dead dogfish, read a wrong east
Now how do you do?
I’m tempted not to state my interest
Moons sky brings me back to reality
Barren buildings and owned killings
Faces swapped so none can see
Masks are commonplace and I know them more by this icon than a so called real face
Mulling over my inability to make my way
Yoga music playing on the railway
I have a mask as seen by you
No one else knew that my mask was so true to my real face
Brilliance from the knife spliced into silver flesh, flesh of the new
Splashed on the rocks and a darker rotting core-flute, blue blood, red blood, all mix
We all woke, mention ash falling on asleep birds
Climbing stairs is my new pastime
Milk of the talisman has dripped
Dripping / sudden wet
Splashed with dark red
Blood / essence warm
I blow on it once
Then you twice
Sprinkle the salt and sugar
Crystals of / cubiform California
Then we set
Clasp the way
Horse and the hay
It’s a Thursday
Week day / am I insane?
I start to see the new
And death the old
Cold mountains fold
Hooves heavy and thunder
Storms plunders
Juxtapositions a sundered
Boutique / Monique
Neigh whiny
I am now your Philly
Freaked with pink specks above the wing, oh Pegasus
Length of your abroad sailing on that rack
I struck by saturnism, a soiled being of mirth
Naught, uncle verily sold unto me a fandangle disposition
Oh mooncalf I hear you spake, the numbing cheat would but be a faster expiry
Fain I am, I call
Gods acer, you be in amount regardless
Such day, yea I drink from young blood of ye?
Neigh, it be but ague to your conistution
Slipshod my night, soon but I do.
decorum forum this autumn festival praxis for that rat flesh underminer
bourgeois terrine poisoned with benzene
on muddy moss rest us all
soul diviner I arrived here
fear this social fetish or is that all we have left to cherish
Madam Bovary
every treasury is a menacing menagerie
factory thunder blinders
hanger allotment, down the street
information forgot that, oh how it reeks
Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.
Little things I remember.
Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had.
Eclipse. Moonshine.
Pentagram, in a logical place.
Never, ever, even being.
Your words that saved me. And these little things I do.
Pain gone. That’s a comfort.
I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile.
Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting.
Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain?
The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.
Yours, to breif.
Black wheatgrass is the dark blue storm
Sleeping arrowheads longing to morn
Juice of the corpses
mortuary sorted
Standing at the camp
Humors, bile and can’t
It’s hard to see the souls of dead
Trying and waiting bled
Juice of the corpses
loose faithful mortals
Black wheatgrass wearing the hailstorm
A dress from a maelstrom
A wasted crop for all
Shuffling blank space
Filled out my mind
Maze and stars gaped
Fluid acrid staples
Bodies fell on Naples
I’m done trying for empty beds
I’m sure they’ll heat the songs
Pallid gentle gongs
Such blue walls
I’m sinking in wooden doors
I’m drinking my day
Winning lace
Crumble the craze
Apples drowned in plague
Ringing ringing gongs
Shouldn’t call
Full house
Ace of clubs
In the streets and on the bus
Lightning fired from hearts
Speed frothing at the mouth
Rooted in the deepest pit of the minds
My word are they crazy?
Hitting, smashing, raging
Expending dangers like apples thrown against you
One might hurt
They have hillsides full of this
Rage filled apples
To throw
Arrived by their inhumanity
Furiously battled
Curing all down
Like helpless cattle
Hated by
Thinking gone
Nothing but rage
Till the moment they stop
Sadness then comes like a
full stop
Down by the course dirt lane
The hard presence of the pebbles
Cutting the hot sun baked grasses
It’s grasshopper, working to raise the littlest flags
His tiny little empty empire has hard times
Drought and floods, growth and death
They both come as a hash brown
Sand wasps and birds seek him out
Each with a different evil agenda
If either are successful his empire ends
Nothing left but his little flags
To be rotted out next flood
Or burned by a forever sun
Grasshopper has to raise his flags
To bring a mate
Will his family be a reality?
Straw sipping ice tea
Forget my feelings, please
Simple sugars, trembling and fuller
Buy more and search again
Just a city ant
In among many
Scrabbling every day
Off-peak vulnerability
Searching my own, fragile abilities
Consume my thoughts, actions and associated teas
I’m
Bathed
In a statement
The acrid
Stink
The acid lonelyness
I’m not like that
I’m not sure what I am
Bells toll on your words
Acrid days
On the insisted distance
I’m lonely. Not one of each of the nine.
I’m not even one of those who have
Or haven’t
Where do I belong?
Called. Cast. Culled. Places like a spit.
Fires on my skin
The acrid
Arid days
Insidious minds
They, tell, me, to….
Survive.
My acrid lonelyness is insisted
Like a ghostly connection
I’m not going to be meeting perfection
Misreable kingdom of sticky things that hit
Turning a blind
I’m loneliness
So I wander
Wander and call
Forme kind to answer
Their are none. None here.
My acrid lonelyness insisted
In my infamy
I neglected my corespondence
I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person
I’m replying to you, oh black one, for your letter doth take a certain amount of vile.
I’m not sure, of the trials you have been through. Know that as a wizard I do now only see things as I can get to them.
Though your quest, and questions are likely to be arduous. I’m sure if you, Vincent, are clear of your intentions. The best may come. Hear are the answers I found. I hope if you find them in good stead:
Fine comes arfter a whole
White rocks on the seaside
Every unicorn is a blue whale
Chicken feet hurt, as much the Hawks
Foxes dig, hide their tresures
A smile is worth only your hope
Justice eats her own heart
A katabisis does not need to go downwards
Hate is my favorite song
Warm bodies were recovered in the fourth forest
Letters sent by air, are not going anywhere
Drops of blood, Searing in the lights
Shunted forward by dry winds, efforts to breathe
Slow rough teeth
Coughing, cups of phlegm, hate
Wishing for the night, respite from heat, but just as dry
Cry, I no longer do that
Whispers of a long autumn
Gained from a sultry voice
Speaking out in epic airs
A cloud of smoked mouths
Cracking the cackling eternal ether
Torn clothes, flag still waving
But deeply drunk of the well of lies
Do once again, we listen?
Stabbing exposures
Inside gowns of naked emotion
Lanterns of blue sick sky
Hanging, by the feet
From another ideas tree
When, tampered by their pleading
Screens, screams, filling the glass
Nb: this is not about me. It is my feelings though.
In the day.
It’s spring. They come out at night. Flowering.
The hate from them is like pollen. Like a stench of the past. Because it is death.
Watching these ducklings on the lake I can’t help it. Towering.
Above us it sits. The useless skyline. Technology can’t do it. It’s just keeping a sense of the real life. Clever it was meant.
Those ducklings are happy. Quacking along. Mother keeping them in toe. I think of how many more springs that are coming for me. Cowering.
These nights. These days. The mostly white flowers here are to some pure. Really they are a lot of metaphors. Lies. Pretty lies in my mind. Lament.
In the night.
Is that night? A little sky full of stars? The ducklings are asleep in my hands. Mother on my lap. How can I keep them safe? From the dark? From the monsters? Questions.
I feed the mouth. This visceral tooth holding flesh attached to me. Sickness in. I’m not going to be hear next spring. I can hear the monsters in my mind. They are close. So close. They. Can try and eat me. But I fight. For my ducklings. For their mother. I’m going to be here as long as I can. For as many of the best things.
The night. I know they are scratching me as I sleep. I see the scars. I smell them on my clothes. My ducking share safe. Their mother is safe. I will probably eat something more soon. Better food. They will play again. On the lakes surface. Never know that they are on the surface of my mind. Reflecting what is good. Those blessed things.
The sun.
The morning.
I’m alive still. Monsters gone. How much longer? I’m going to find out. I’m going to know. The ducklings will they miss me? I’m not sure. Even when I’m dead I’m sure to miss them. Like a bells ring.
Riding the noises in the forest fae
Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds
Strange library, evergreen, oh don’t mind me
Pinky promises flowering essence, cool Ghostly presence
Little strange new dreams of machines, none of them clean
Rocky colors, shook the duller capture
Fresh kill to the bones of the Trill, they’re after the carrion fill
Hot cups, gimlet luck, blue blood, true mud
Flicking others, shadows like cothered muffeled mussel
Dripping with spite their is the spike, and the hill of the place of the armsted respite
Besides that their it is, a spokesman for the next new species
A fairy and a robot, a gathering thought, waves
It’s hand is up, sucking on the teat
Newborn, but not a newcomer
How quickly will it learn?
Of the spiders, birds, books and nerds?
Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system
I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions
Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes
so I hear they melted down the ox’s
Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views
Ques, cues
I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions
Curly, your just like them
Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin
Lonely, like a oyster
You will blame the system then the others
Never see the ocean of muck you are in
Is that your fualt? Your future?
I’m just a pearl
I’ve got no cleavage to cut with
I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.
I’m part of a potion
Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude
I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me.
Little flowers of rain
Quenching the plain of dark grassy soil
Fleshy camphor of vanity we toil
Filling the clephed tease, hemmed and coiled
Little glowing fleas on stems hung royal
Like a old friend who’s seen the sights
Sitting in a cafe to talk
Winter chills, from the right
Coats thick and the sanguine coffee strong. Lark at the magpies preparing their best nests.
Some of the paint has crumbled, like that old face you know so well.
Mossy hair, growing in defiance to the years, spitefully grey.
Clasping the the cup, like a trickle of a stream in a long dry winters night.
Busking death away, his songs are old and full of ttr memories of the places his been.
It’s a place you go, a place you chat, a place you would call the heart. A city like this, beats like a old trackers farts. It would trundle along, keep going, keep fighting.
This man is old and cold though. I’m not sure if he will survive the next summers fires. They come all the time now.
I stare at the cup and think how much he’s enjoying it. It’s the last month of winter, and he knows it all to well.
That sanguine coffee is a sign of things to come
‘Tis true that deemed of scientific melodramas, dictate thine canonization be infact, dubious.
To their swollen pride, and empty scratches of ink, do I cast out such thoughtless tomfoolery.
Thine cosmic muse take thine hand and seek to whisper in thine ear, astrological tendrils of thy alchemists ways.
Thus from formed the hammer and the nail, forming ones knife cutting thine cheese and bread, pouring the blue wine forthcoming of thine like and thine presence in the circle of delights do brought the eldrich extacy that was fortolled in laborious toam.
Gavelkind doth it comes upon me this harteous gift of thin father, and yet the space to perform this mentorious ritual placates thines spittletos angers and bituminous rage at having to wait until the seventh season of the sun to inherit it.
Only the itch of praises to you give me alibli and the ability to cast such a graven spell, to witch thine is of course humbly to serve.
And this a spake the words to thine:
East, south, west, north
From land, to port
Free In mind and in spirit
Thank the for all the gifts, I hath been given in this life, but to you I now pray
Cast from me my sins be given a thousand more times their worth
I’d let you seek to send me to the darkest pits of hell if you so wish
But I only wish for the sight of wich you cast from me in my first year of life
From port to land
North, west, south, east
Three times I say, and three times more, thus I spake it, so it be
