Before The Six A..M. Sex

Follow all your comings. Her flash-colored sparks make for something tunic-
Sounding shivers that a havoc may one time have mistakenly called the ring-
Size bending or turning back or having the back face his front with a gusto
The love of the lust makes when someone somebody calls a whore teaches/
Corrects your flushed dunk and every peculiar way of counting rings, tunics
Fallacies, underwear, moving unstigmatized liquid, an oven, seven pins
. There it is, a flow, the zits burst as all the comings follow fears, this flash.

Oh and it's not a gazette you're reading. Not everybody thinks it's a look-up on
All the laws on those walls you've spat the semen you've swallowed upon. Spit
The words. They are not a befitting. Your fuck is a tarnished wallow, my dear/
The devil. What of those reach and this lighting cigarette feasting fasting
Can your vagina wet? Feel it. Fringes are better than a soul
Your skin wastes. Teething fish, fighter planes, these cannot touch you.
A rip of the biblicals is what your mouth reeks of when taking flights
Make you make me want you dead as a canal, a coin, a coined asinine line
Like 1. words only eyes can hear, 2. was it right?, 3. ....nothing but destroy

Follow the comings, then. Beast it up, if you like: I know the Cosmopolitan
Sex is a clothing, as if you and i were but everything but a changed.

Transferee

where you wander endless
your endless walk starts, where you sing
Light songs, you hope and take
A pause to muse at how green

the
falling
leaves
are

how they leave tress
bald, as if they were,
like your eyes,
the last capsule

Of capture.
Where it takes
You from here
Wherever here
Become nothing

But a glimpse, where i set

This free, the silence is in.

Colored Paper

The end in itself is in the enough silence streak.
Filling coloured designs with a cold, shimmering living does not perpetuate with salivas Alone. You would have to elongate then expand yourself with beginnings.

The shout in
It is the string, the strength with which you may have struggled your flow all this time.
Cars care for salivas and this language to bear all the unclear glass crass upon will
Become toward our end silent attachments of the spirits' walk.

It is when you sell your way of reaching and tapping the cold long break
That you can appear ghostly and warm despite the falls of octagons' whirl and its song

That lights within souls and grass ferris.

It is the dadaist that dies. It not alone reaps and contrasts streams but plays on set every time something queues it and tunes it well in consonance of trains' tutorial breakages.
It happened before your very eyes.

Attract lies like how you attact sticks and laces of flowers punched out through your Abdomen. Abduct these walls, trace patterns and never ask how it can be forgotten. Downtown pays tribute to everything she asks that dusk cant bear alone. She says she thinks the way you do. But your chest darkens and rots in hell.

That lies attract each other is abduction.

Meet me at point x as though you have had captured throughout your life the missing y
And had tried making its sense in considering the succession of unceasing points as your
Points of what's unstoppable, within which you collide with the pause they reach
But cannot at any chance wish to crack and be at ease deciphered.

End

eight long days of a wait and half a year in recluse you stand still amid noises and a burning pulling, praying

this may have been the only last pull.

cut its tip and lift the lid from the bottom with your wrist twisted a bit and the free hand jerked to its left forming an angle supporting the break of the plastic cup cut to its tip. Like to support a baby's crib, harness around the uncut top-cover your right hand and without touching the edge of the table next to a round unlit lamp by the side you stand on at that corridor's end, slowly lift up and drop down the plastic piece after counting two three-second count sets right after some named uncut songs beat

the end in itself is in the silence streak. Filling colored designs with a cold, shimmering living does not perpetuate with salivas alone. You would.

Rights

you expect respect's automatic-a rote act no one misses to type in on a list.

Rights. Canisters stuck inside a rectal hollow. Women raped. Women raping

Men. We see women sucking pens, penis-sucking women, too. You are an all

Of the above.

Go back to earth and till it until you make it work for all these people who need more than bread and blood carries off all the ones reeking of excess and you bring it back to a solide simple silence

Correctional

Opening up a machine-run pandora
Box is like an enclosed shutter
Falling from a great correct space
Down a meadow of an ideal
Before rides in a car
up and ready to end the half-dead
after the fall a landscape of the
half-naked
walking towards me/but, one of them is
myself behind pictures of the dead
forest, spruce, swampy greens and a plethora of half-
cut acacia/narra, i do not know their names/ then
a walk/upstairs/ this provides against a desperation
and slits

The Training III

Autumns refunded. Sinking typing eczema. A thing to the past of your liking,
the rivets, holds
of cauldron-based tsunamis. Walking porcelain
stuffed to the very end of this change. Shallow graves, oh they're
There, too, looking for you, asking how you'd been the day you passed away

To a sadness a move scrapes through a skin a lion makes in its purr.