Freitag, 16. Dez 2011, 5:05

Manequin Hand Trapdoor I Reminder
Music: Boom Bip
Words: Doseone

Nerved, spotted not alone at the copy bag's lip. Your "last great mime" eyes watching faces go bald through a ply of mucus or living gauze. The way a glass of still water brings out… strings out an entire nights sleep. The ringing in your ears after locking a series of doors. When you feel friendless and alone this sends a thin kitchen noise very pregnant throughout the house. Letting the few squeaking floorboards know that they cannot but sleep through you. A dream screams zilch to the woke. Wanting power not unlike that of a thermostat instead you're one warm dot of wheat buckling down to the 10,000 sours of time line indulgence; a silent, undeniable page break.

Sure you swear you single out a single grain of sea and keep track all the way to the shore. Trousers rolled to the diminish of pant utility, flashing calf meat at the big water mom. Avoiding the wake and thief's dignity, that's losing count. Saying "Great" or 6lbs. 11 ounces awaiting happy to the ribs of books frayed… all that respect for never seeing all your blood displayed outside your body at once. All that ignoring of the fewer's golden properties. Skipping on the curse of will you help with pregnant meanwhile tumors twinkling, twining throughout your seaweed centre. Such bits part power over earth and anti-gravity, cold editing the place machine to bits because you're this mediafetusmindmomowingstraightman coughing bird badly and creaky broken english like a rock. The caveman absolute… more red paint faced than garden goaled.

You can taste the astronaut in those nails… suck on the dirt in Edisons teeth, blindly ejaculate his thousand helper rally, be reminded your warm blossom body feeds a smile rich mud.

What they do… Is get an empty barrel filled with loosed puzzle pieces - and a Hollywood set fan - and blow them all over you.

I can't wait till I wake to the bit in this flick where all crutches are kicked and my mothers forgived. Be it by the therapist's sieve or one carcrash to live, I would rather not dive from a wire of a bridge if it's for me to heal by the 25th give god forbid that this nose glass moustache to wig is exposing a rib. God forbid I'd love to see 50 fat fingered and fearless with something like kids.

Trapping yourself in a solid fashion (negative) before the sexual hinge. Your father honest and alimoniless in the thickest of glass blowing his squeezed teeth saying your mother's become disgusting. She is… was secrets to the clubbed tongue of a jersey secretary… oh you remember - buried in the thin inner hand cells that refuse replacing, cause you won't bite into your warm arm for fear of bursting the bulged obvious vein.

The same veins your heart seems so impatient with. Maybe yours cuts so deep it makes a second mouth more massive that your guilty average ten year old smart pumps glib… maybe not… You're a harpless fear extra in the dust gather massive… a muscle bound fossil swapping specs of flesh for a rock thin slow future of snapping off into salt.

There's no harm done in the fruition of minerals. The second great planting sink of your adult teeth.