nothing beats as strongly fro you
my heart

i look into the sky and i see
beautiful eyes
my love

is like looking into a sewer
and seeing beautiful lovely sewer
instead of bad sewer

i never knew how feel i could
in heart
tll i set eye on you baby

you spin me around
all way
make me so dizzy

the way you do walking
it like
an angel

baby you’re beautiful
so good
i love the way you mow my lawn

sway hips, so ****
you make me crazy baby pie

my beatiful love i kneed you

i write book and fill
with nothing but you baby
baby baby baby

kiss me again
so good
nice

the previous listener, who did so faintly and in a manner foreign to me, sat reasonably as I do now, or perhaps lain starry and jaded on some soft lawn riddled with the paused movements of those who watched, clouded with distraction, the life of a sweet nothing drown in descent from above as they cheered and screamed for it, for that meaningless treasure tainted by the vanity of their own desire, ignorant of the listener, of her own treasure then forming, as something warm and enduring in the seat of her chest, something to brood, to analyze, to cherish for a length, at great odds with the fleet and trivia that so dominated the struct of their noire.

but the listener had none of this, gulfed from the shaking and pressing, shielded the same from its symbol and write, opting to push for those few golden moments most certainly approaching her as the rest wraithed past, softly and shyly granting the scarcest and most shamefully starved of treelines, roadways and ballparks and wire staff, knowing but keeping that the few she would most deeply and fondly remember would be just these.

and so the listener and her lover stood past, sweeping over the artificial earths with little concern, not pausing or skipping for a moment to witness the wonder in the world around them and to soak up some indefinable fraction of its infinite offerings. from lain block to patch grass they strode, searching for their one moment, for that which so surely stood staunch and unmoving at some near point in their passage, but which always seemed to elude them, to taunt and hang and cackle in the face of their steadily growing contempt.

and then, as the crowd deserted their peaks for the safe and steady and trough, allowing those moments of elation to slip from them with ease, the listener let likewise all that was precious to her from her grasp, and fell into a similar place, one of deserted lows and recollections of the brightness that lay behind, of those very moments that felt their way independently into her heart and her soul, and left her love beside her, forever looking up into the dark.

to live for tomorrow is to
live within your small rectangular box
and to cry about the smaller things
even when the box
shows you glimpses of bad things
and the rotators and coolers
grow tired and beg for death

and breathing for another day
is the action you treat dearly
with tomorrows oxygen in your body
and the worries of belt straps
and bad shoes
and overturned glasses
running through your blood like
the rage of a toddler
whose toy has been stolen

and you will move through the day
and see the little things
but without wonder
and the big with agitated disgust
and the prices and movement and sounds
will unnerve you like
the sitting box does when it
throws dead skin at you
under the cover of warmth
and the comfort of silence

and if that box is a home
and the world is alive
then you will be alone
and earth and wind will not bend to you
nor will the songs of those
who cry outside of the structure
who wail for a cause greater than
the man who ate the last donut
or the dictionary being the only book
in the hotel

and now love
now life
now the joy and tears that yield to nothing
and the chemicals that move us to places
we can never describe
they can wait for you
because your light bulbs haven't come yet
and if they had they wouldn't be turned on anyway

round are the trees
at the base of their trunks
and defiantly split near their peaks

and the twigs on the ground
agonizingly split
as they wrench and complain down beneath

I can't quite recall
what it was that I'd done
to lead me to my death bound in chains

but if I think enough
I can start to believe
that my old calloused hands had caused pain

if I had a wish
or a bargain to be
all alone in this forest forever

my arms would be free
and the sweet flower bees
would sleep softly upon my cadaver

for the sun isn't solid
its aura elusive
casting light but yielding only shadows

perhaps if the stars
would go dim for a while
i might find my own in the gallows

"pappy?"
"what"
"where my hose"
"I ain't seen your ****"
"yeah right, old ******. I seen you snoopin"
"im writing you out of my will"
"****!"

ello m8

wait