I am going to push them way
Fall into the leaves of the winter trees
Drowning, slowly, lonely, my city of rain
It's something like 5ht, a little bigger and bad-ass sideways from a christmas-light in situ situation. You can't just tuck-in, curl-in, sink down with these fabrics and trim-slim Vatican II release form, not with the by-laws and by the ways, the tax bracket stairwell stairways. And with a spine of stars we can clash and offend, grab our jar of earth and never touch ground again. Just spiralling. Screwing. Ever so seemingly non-chalant
a braying (brahe-ing from catechism)
What's your candor like in these age-wrung ounces of boredom, that joyous tittling evaporating into square homonyms, shaping humunculae, becoming hominids? I won't be in that brown paper box, the pine resin dripping plainly into my legs and caught limbs caculating, cackling. Can't trap me, tricksy little spider, I've my own webs to weave, other lives to paralyse and dessicate, turn them bones to brittle little spells in own wicked ways much worse. Much worse. Catalytic legs churning down the noise and coupling the joists, a thronging nation of indivisible, cascading noise, red-flare toes to jagged-edge knees, this is how gods dance in the grim. We've no need for hats and hairs, no need for teeth to hum the drone and rasp licks rumbling from our bellies, now do we lovely?
That is, if you're listening...
My my my, if you're listening, I could thread a yarn from here til the beginning of time, spinning it off the loom to each cave and eddy of the chapel of stone letting it drench in the ageless sun of no-time. I'll know better than to bead it with tiger teeth or spin feathers between the strands of glass. I'll write my story in the wee fires lit in the night, all the beaming, boasting, fading voices cackling to the streaming thrumb.
Truth has been traded in for a temporarily convenient infallibility.
60 impossibilities all mired in the spicket twist forgetting the unfortunate of probable nature surrounding the sucking sound wheeling down the waterworks through the sink. Profundus, stepping tip-toe-paw-askew and circling only three times for an electrolytic chromium hue to appear. Simple images carry on in candor and shuffle the long-arced dreaming dance, shuttering and blurring in a swoon wrapping just tight enough to ache for the moonlight.
And now we know juxtapose, patience in turn for patent-pending immortality, a fear for afraid, a need for a strain? And now we know iuxtapose, a dream for.
Fall into the leaves of the winter trees
Drowning, slowly, lonely, my city of rain
It's something like 5ht, a little bigger and bad-ass sideways from a christmas-light in situ situation. You can't just tuck-in, curl-in, sink down with these fabrics and trim-slim Vatican II release form, not with the by-laws and by the ways, the tax bracket stairwell stairways. And with a spine of stars we can clash and offend, grab our jar of earth and never touch ground again. Just spiralling. Screwing. Ever so seemingly non-chalant
a braying (brahe-ing from catechism)
What's your candor like in these age-wrung ounces of boredom, that joyous tittling evaporating into square homonyms, shaping humunculae, becoming hominids? I won't be in that brown paper box, the pine resin dripping plainly into my legs and caught limbs caculating, cackling. Can't trap me, tricksy little spider, I've my own webs to weave, other lives to paralyse and dessicate, turn them bones to brittle little spells in own wicked ways much worse. Much worse. Catalytic legs churning down the noise and coupling the joists, a thronging nation of indivisible, cascading noise, red-flare toes to jagged-edge knees, this is how gods dance in the grim. We've no need for hats and hairs, no need for teeth to hum the drone and rasp licks rumbling from our bellies, now do we lovely?
That is, if you're listening...
My my my, if you're listening, I could thread a yarn from here til the beginning of time, spinning it off the loom to each cave and eddy of the chapel of stone letting it drench in the ageless sun of no-time. I'll know better than to bead it with tiger teeth or spin feathers between the strands of glass. I'll write my story in the wee fires lit in the night, all the beaming, boasting, fading voices cackling to the streaming thrumb.
Truth has been traded in for a temporarily convenient infallibility.
60 impossibilities all mired in the spicket twist forgetting the unfortunate of probable nature surrounding the sucking sound wheeling down the waterworks through the sink. Profundus, stepping tip-toe-paw-askew and circling only three times for an electrolytic chromium hue to appear. Simple images carry on in candor and shuffle the long-arced dreaming dance, shuttering and blurring in a swoon wrapping just tight enough to ache for the moonlight.
And now we know juxtapose, patience in turn for patent-pending immortality, a fear for afraid, a need for a strain? And now we know iuxtapose, a dream for.
