Whereby your foreskin lacks rudimentary rubber. A toke on the column pile. An afternoon spent sleeping the dyer mac. There are 46 such instances because bananas don’t have bones.
Gild the gory festooned hamper-maker of dried t-shirts and slumped out cases. All items not contained within fall without and are judged by the groove.
A beat up the second staircase to elongate the single space like abhorrence, climbing up north streets in an absence.
Swarm sideways, finding someone leveled against a brighter hour-type interval. Somehow inflated too much reality for seasonal cereals and burnt toast.
Timeless and placeless and fiction cards spread out enough to guarantee the difference.
The rippling ambiance of vocabularies.
To be graffitied is to be on vacation.
Your things you loved now fight like a cop-kisser. I stand alabaster in the light and you commingle with two boys and twenty dollars.
The ductile inability to see; a handsome fusion of certainty and bacon. It is, simply, really, acquired. Some such pirated recordings of the sky template that Hispanics just love.
Hunches of whore legs like corn on the cob.
[bend top of body; meager hold the first time; club feet and cotton; bouncing back and claiming butchers as rote; arm squeezing the curly slope of a half-yawning member; filling the once open edge with murmurs and gossip; greased palms and buggered faces; a toilet traipse around the room full of; up against the wall; tapered, twisted, knotted, knifed…]
I see myself looking back at nothing, back across the morning sky.
