|
paste!
|
there is a catapult for closing eyes. it's in the basket, with the cherries and landmarks, underneath the neatly-folded napkins and visions of the underworld.
the common cause of rust on a fuselage is not wind or about being blown away.
simulacra simulacra wherest do thou combine with relishable semblance? a team of mules. a sack of red onions. the blue ambivalent snickering of the treadmarks on one's leftout body parts. unh unh hydrolize my dyspeptic shark attacks, like dulling, squashing into no--that which... yes, you would leave the sails down to jump into a sinking raft only to see in the ripples of struggle a reflection of a stupid cage and a ridiculous sentiment. one second later, the transcontinental locksmith, likewise multititled the hungry framer of inconceivable landscapes, comes to the rescue, holding a blowtorch and a hand held giraffe, i guess. who wants to drown? he says. reply: the strayers, bottom up, always easily half empty, why not.
a couple more things about the milkcrate with all the hearts pressed into it: laundry gets done over and over, "you might get lonely but i'm still by your side, you might have to leave, but not tonight" -cursive; the trust fund for the diaphoretic traipse around different blocks for solve sake, the glass and the shrinking limitation hydronauticals with their steady masses, a suckpad, lotuses, hammers.
from the volts and tenderized reaching-fors, some peppery shame, pureed into a reliable milkshake, for everyone to drink from. cheers.
|
021104
|
