chancery

Virile:
Morning of the day dew dawned and happening rain bantered with the chain gang aas it slopped through the window panes on the floor.
Clang:
And so the man sang, of pain, anger, trying tales of woe, bravissimo, belissimas, and the night so sweet.
"Hum quietly so your mother can paint":
and the people in glass houses stared out wistful smiles, biles rent up pent up in the vase that sat dainitly perched in search of a vague trace of days. They sat on stones they dare not throw through, though the people below call for them to rise.
Cycles in Paul Newman:
Chaste moments passby unused racing grave chasing, I feel death's warm embrace creeping up on me, I have to shield off her advances for now. But when my time comes I promise to show her a gentlemanly time wink wink that's right I sleep with the fishes.
History's blowhole:
A sinkhole in time to book passage far and into the future star-wheeling planet hunting, gathering wild oats on the oak trees of lava-filled boilerplate landscapes. I smell the cold 4K breeze filling out a too never too late pension plan to retire in youth amidst other lifeforms. I have days left in fantasy to be fulfilled.
I leave the line in a half-trance with the full chance that it bleeds into my waking moments.
Fuck you Tom Brokaw. I love you Tom Brokaw.

Since we met under furious circumstances

Born on a hill,
high as a kite,
sword in one hand,
rage in the other,
it wasn't me.

sitting along,
smiling vaguely,
coughing shyly,
sighing mildly,
warn't meself.

music in soothing tones,
boring insight,
nasal upbringing,
silver-toothed tongue twisted
nein, ich bein not I.

Golden prow,
sailing vessel,
bond-free vassal,
starry tassel,
azure glass,
hands warm,
mead through a sippy straw,
aye, I.

% chafe

al;d9g2://

slightly downtrodden and tingly
i've got blisters on me ring finga

it's been longer since i lost the you
inside of me.

like a silverbacked rib
we punch F5 to remind ourselves
there is no 'fears' in machine

still, the hindquarters

Porno Weigh Station

last of head weigh, which way to the parm; team.

I ghast a question for the old neighbors but the waving iggs a me. You know the coke machine wants you.

Rake the marsh, dear and aluv you. I will. It's on line 5 next to 'ghost'.

Could we make more hamsters here?
Even with the air-raid on and all, it's a gasp away from lentils.

Cancer rode me once down to the Toronto Argonaut's game. It was cloudy sixteen/six times that day. I asked you a mention of a purse. You gave me 'the crack'; it's a sandwich in Idaho.
Let me ask you a question!

"Is it yonder by the hay fever?"

That's a good way to go John Denver.
That's a great way to make cheese.

Porch Pervert

Bake bird, me Alaska.
Uber-schtilten mive before the plains, be doors again, over by the horror.

"Store #1 was here," he looks calmly to the pony, tied up as 'antsy', "now I see the Dove bar wrapper here. What's this got to do with all this source citation?"

(Beef here)

Pony looks off on bonders. Scoffs. A dull sussurant wheezing overcome by the gynaclergy.

sunshiney day

The red-ochred man stalks among the whistling grass,
looking over the ashen plain, from high on a ridge.
A thin-line of brightness marks the horizon of a grey storm-studded sky.
A dry chill wind kicks up the dust.
he puts his tongue out to taste it.
Musty.
The wooden club in his hand hangs slack.
Slow jazz streaks lines through the cold sand.
Softly, he says to himself.

Gypsy Prints

akg02788://

siesmic patrol car articles rewaffled
from brothels cold cough medicine
mandate straight toward the drummond
crumb punch raider cumin doom fare
room for cubits soothing cuticle ruberic
nubile dude ranch sans pants on the rancher
slight chance we had touching
much so what well snell fort smelling
let's swell together and make out ships

carrots and corners

My thoughts are filled with carrots and corners
little black blind spots lividly languishing in peripheral vision
stochastic plastic ravaging maelstrom
filling holes with music
giant rips in fabric
no more hubris
ego befallen hard times
world a-tilt
sedentary mud slinging down to bottom.

The diversity is lost now.
I *fuck* am *pluck* confused *snuck a mouse into the house*.

Scan-tron moth

Hello, I am orb the ghost-crowned whale; hallowed be my ankle.

Nest Roy

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