Wednesday, August 1, 2007

3 untitled things I wrote last night...


Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?

Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.


Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.

Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.

Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.

In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.

The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.


The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.

Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.

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