Many showers of here yet come no one let’s lead leaden waters murky’d red

Many showers of here yet come no one let’s lead leaden waters murky’d red

The butter flies intwove into his mental construction and in a minute when you let it the words will come flowing out of you like the butternot butternought better not be believe it’s not butterworth scotches ringing out twice right, I’m talking about the rhythmish blue-shhhhh, we’re underground, here trapped in a library, eyes of the night glimpsing cold.  Echoes and shadows that wander and wonder at which of you had best be sat, I collect things around me that are not mine but for which I am responsible, I am a keeper of all things and a loser to them each.  It’s not sad in the day in the life of a loser, baby, why don’t you kill me?  Whenever creeping black the back corner spaces of my mind, I’ve been listening to much alien music, you know these days, they’re about to beam me up.  And up, up I go in the big easy under whelp kid you gotta get out of this tune becayse you’re coming up quick and you’re in a torrent of typing into a teller at a screen at a desktop lady why don’t you give her a desk? Ever thought about eHarmony?  Why not try e-euphoria, e-joy, try this coming quiet calming calling thing that eats you all up in an instant and then it’s going to get good and gone and settle out and here you go I’m getting gone, so wthen the day arrives when you’re finally ready to take this journey up the thousands steps of words and writing and writing and writing all the time, I like a monk will scribe, seal and scribble away this kind of a plea to win the bargain of my life.   In the desert I was become you oh soul that is sacred that has lost me to the Northern Wind, oh Son of the Northern Wind there is a desperate cry on the air tonight an eagle fallen to a falseling phasing out the microfissures in realities and subverting their own subtext so these diddly little creatures of the 4th or 5th dimension or some such and blips in to putting his fingers into a lot of little pies and suck up your milkshake with a bigger straw, I’m beyond that now I’m beyond the forgettings and the abnormalities, existence fickle snitcher has a pickle of a poem or two, Pandora should really go Pro, so I don’t have to hear all this none of this nonsense senseless slaughter of my senses with such commercial indivisions betwixt the sounds I serve to save and swim in safely, but out from a gutter comes an advertisement for more and new and best and betterest best and bestest best, Could I ask you a question?  How would you put it to me to put it to you to put it up to putting it on and putting it in and petting it.  Just palpable enough to get weird, get wild, get woman, get fierce, get feral, get feminine

A betterment of another kind


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