The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree, The mocking birds mouth is as still as the tree,

I shall be enveloped, intoxicated in it's last words effigy,
Transcribed across the tablets of the deserts final plea,
It searches for my body
The coyote calls my name,
The sands ask for me as a trophy
They swallow up my grave,

The slits of eyes in my wrist and thighs show my life's vision out to sky, it sees the world from the deep inside where I hid it in my skin and my arteries,

When you find me dead bury me in the sand, il be a sand angel in 2010,

I was never worth consoling, hid from every one I knew, finally at the end you found you hate me too.

Guilts too hard to take, it ***** in my soul like a vacuum, guilt beats hate, Benton falls down in the bathroom,

The tiles watch him **** on the floor
He collapsed then shat and vomited more, whole lives fall in the toilet. too moist as miscarried babies,
So bury me in the desert,
So the mocking bird can't say ****.

Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
                         Blue #1,
                                                  and Sucralose, too.

Bend over to spray
                         the rotting road-**** with perfume.

Perfect the recipe
                         for what was fleshed and fruited
                                                  from animals and plants.

Photoshop the starved and diseased
                         with smiles
                                                  and beautiful bodies.

Clothe the *****
                         with lingerie, with heels,
                                                  and with stones.

Paint the roses red.
                         We paint the white roses red.
                                                  We’re painting the white roses red!

Your arms,
Are like the days I used to cut myself for you,
In front of my computer.
Pricked flayed.
From the times it split too much depth.

In the Red Sea vein.

Like the times I'd drink,
Till I ****** in the corner of the floor,
In my room.
With the door handle loosed,
So someone can find me in the morning.

My whole life is a corner
With you the coroner
In a morgue with no form to it
With the bodies on the slabs cut up.
Impatient and waiting to be whole,
Not facing the wall  of your skull.

This rooms too full.

My bodies piled on the others.
Autopsy waiting room.
You're in that cottage at the edge of the abyss.
The event horizon to hell.
What Dreams Won't Come.

All of these human can be nothing but be basic and face it
It's tracing the lines of the facade that's been spliced hundreds of strides and on mauve colors lines placed then
Retraced to the grid full of masterfully hid fingers stagnant and bent tripping placid and flaccid like ***** that are emaciated and crypt ****** and splattered like pavement placed upon pickled waves strafed across walled like cinder blocks half way through baking
Entombed youth encased in the catwalk of toxins
Ensuing and spewing no lines not concrete times and dimed up in baggy a sporadically creased into godsends.
There is no god in the streets he's illegal and should have bend the taxes been spread towards all the youth it's intwined threads. The volumous illusion of writing. Put into cursive this is not my writing ******* stop hacking my account you credophile.
The only way to live is the high life.
It is thing overcoming the tops of woven rugs covered so that beneath there's a heap of root vegetation growth so deep seeded it grows in the sand it is mired in. Below the seep of the sin it's been trampled in. These horses don't have legs. Just *****. To just braid yourself in them.

So much hope set in the height of 8"

The curlewing curls of
pea plants
decadent

Continuos flowing of the firmament
Breaking the concrete walk of the beat to the scene we live our lives between street meat
Imploding our boundaries while humans surround me no air or oxygen just fountains trying too hard to be scenic

I have a garden
I own the earth
But not In the end
It will be my dad

All carbon and cozy covered in primrose plots moldy and pozy'd
So many flowers mounded on the grave of a detritus that it worthy.
To be part of physics
Oh happy squeaking willow branches I remember
Oh china tree blossoms white
-just soon to come out-
Ou the bombs though

The agony hanging over me when I know that there is not a peace treaty from betwixt man fingers plotting graphs of how to not hurt each other

Yet I swoon to the garden and it befuddles my every move tripping me with plant with organism with hippy mumbojumbo
Convoluted  material
That makes an aqueous pressure and fluidity to drown all the youth
Thou must grow but this isn't this fixed rates word attack

No. I am here to be the garden
To show walden in myself for my selfs joy
I am here for selfishness
Not evil as you couldn't see me


To pick apart the pieces
If the leaves rent in the movement to just create me
To tease and toss the strings ran from below them to the trees seams.
To root the ever awesome conglomerated picture of a fixture of an ornament
Of the human life that Seams to stem from what is Lendon.
This is homage to myself
And so is the thought.

I lost the sincerity in my eyes.
A long time.
I spat the fire out,
Replaced with a fjord.
A glacier cut mountain hole.
Shake and fake trembling.
I killed a little boy in my head
Using logic as a razor to cut his throat and sever his spine till all the jelly in it spill.
Replace with a steel core.
Unmoving.
Brittle, albeit,
Courser skin.
Less heart,
And more dead.
Cadaveric,
No love inside.
Only abhorrence,
For every single existent existence.

But I got girls.
What's that helped me.
Continuation of cycles of self-deprecation.
Grew roots,
Spread limbs,
But cut the phloem out.

Bleed the ******* sap.

It seems like these
Girls they got
These thing
Going

Right breaks
Lines
Like flowing
Thigh
Crushing us into points on a dot into internet bliss

****** by ****** ******* ******
Their. I's dotted miss. That no soul lies on the internet. It's not a bed to rest in.
It's a pit of battle. Boasting
In front of Ginsy
And Kowski
Don't just string words
Or you'll be like me trying to make the first *** shot on the world.

Grow a real root. Though it's hard. "I know" suburbia and such.
Calm down.
Don't ******* chive.
Grow a plant. Do something real.
Real guys are there. They are my friends. You don't have to be on this cite to make me feel cited. Just ask.
Go to English class and learn to hate poetry. Then re discover after you found out you're stupid. 'Cept you Quinn.
Then invent a new love.
It's you.
**** dudes.
Girls are so much more than Ginsberg ever said and less than Bukowski never did