center of every house is a god of opposite house
even moon
house of children is not a house of family
house of parents is not a house of family
house of family is not a house of genus
strange that house of family is not a house of fantasies and lethargic sleeping
strange that home is not abstract place, strange that "home" have "me" part, at the end
god of children is falls in a house of partners
house of children's god is a place for lovers
house of relationships is not a house of family
house of relationships is not a house of even speaking
house of communication can be separate from house of mouth til the end of life
you can push words from thoughts to mouth, even write them, but 2 and 3 can't be the one.
you're know that from your lovers.
fictitious disembodied tail-knot and head-knot give more events than any aries, venus, suns and pluto.
everybody lives inside the triggered knots.
house of inner home is a double house of death
house of death and unfair unrepair despair is next after balance in pair
when you marry someone, two streams of blood splash from the walls towards each other
can you touch me like blood?
house of death is not last house.
house of what should be relationships is not a house of relationships.
relationships belong to outer world, romances belong to inner half.
love at her home is a love in a house of death for west
love in her drying and falling is a house of love for west.
people wearing that echoes, still makes act the right way.
remember that this is the way to act, but forgot that this is the right way.
only mistake is a insert guilt wire between 1 and 3 layers of themselves.
first degrees of first house under the node of programmed rotting and already past. under accumulated intuition without any mouth.
last degrees of house of home is about burning house, to escape from home, to be dragged like after drugs, like a snake cat and ***** scarecrow through these streets, these streets with other, other people's houses, to know pain from light inside and from the lack of light, not to bump into anyone even in night alley.
love and art is a same houses.
creativity belong to inner world, art belong to outer world.
if art or love classes were supervised by one force and fell on the same exactly two hours a day (or night), and you could use the blessing rain of this open window of time to make the lesson twice as special at the right time, and do these things so intensely only for two hours, what would you choose? and did you forget what you're missing? and one day, when one lesson (love instead art) (or art instead love) would have turned out instead of another...
writing and art is not the same house.
it doesn't matter, as that writing and house of death is not the same house, but echo. but writing and breathing is the same house, they said. and own hands, more like stopped something by own hands. and rolling from hand to hand. stealing and selling is a same god, stealing and writing is a same god.
all types of writing is writing.
god of language in the end cannot fall in house of mercy, through a human being at least

I like to be hybrid and plexus.
the center is something that should be c-lust-er. where in the middle under layer of sound of the "end" is "lust". for one cent or less.
one center should exist only when I want to infiltrate the center of him.
my name means «the meaning».
my assemblage point named «good again», I'm good again, but I was yes.
I was yesterday, with my whole room.
i was sacred, real yes to excess and grey.
my assemblage point is between twin and a cancerous tumor.
or between two most round things - human head and tear.
in the crystal of thunder.
I'm her garden.
I'm her fork.
I'm her venus.
I feel fun-nel in the place of sun.
a dense heavyweight sun in the place of my body, like soil and brain.
sun on me it's always sun of my twin.
sun on body wants you want to be alone.
I always agree with vibration under the word «tree», but «sun» need a pair that strange enough, like «4th level of sun», detailed research for something complicated for justification.
«cliche» is a beautiful as word. the seal at least is pushed and sticky, may not work, sun is less than a cliche.
I can't not have sun so elegantly beautifully as you with your double falling even.
you are nothing like sun.
«good again» symbolized like circle around.
I will tell you that I will help you get your things.
and at that time I will change them while you are not looking.
so that I can see you again.
i haven't stopped being a fountain with monkeys and ears yet, especially in hands. you're had a pig pen.
imitation of kinzugi - natural rhythm of this life in me.
I'm invisible for heavenly bodies, for colours that swimming inside themselves, alive and glossy liquid, they're not actualized me.
but something under consciousness made me actualized being.
I believe that house doesn't saying anything about anybody.
I **** myself because people can't talk. you're tell them everything, and it's still meaningless.
remember stealing? I'm still stealing, but at least without editing. still feel. the same way?
feel is inverted «live» with released, closed eyes. released like fire. exist only in sound from mouth or conscious mistake.
will you concentrate on «evil» or never noticed?
your eyes is «ice» or «yes»?
«leave» is even not inverted, just «i» converted to «ave».
«yes» is inverted «hell» on my first language, only two letters.
70% of my life is mercury, I drowned 70℅ of my life in that poison, and scattering, broken temperatures, flowing, a words of 1000 1000-pages books and my words on other side of mirror. and years without pages.
70% of years and nights I'm looking for a mirror for mercury in my head.
this mirror glued in the shell, but run from RNA.
so far, I have only mirror of my opportunity in other people's words.
I'm nobody, I'm yesbody.
my body is an inscriptions on forehead.
still remember the phobia of «be kind» before mirror, like behind.
before me, before or, before head, before for and be.
maybe it was a premonition. kindness is an instinct. and fear is an instinctive knowledge of cruel consequences of kindness, not of its necessity. so in fact, this fear is kinda embodiment of kindness.
anyway i'm living in chalk on the floor and inside the door.
I have and need word «lips» on knees.
knees that I can cover myself with.
all parts of my body like knees, forehead and lips.
i wanna listening to own body with face and the back of a head.
all I need is knees and words. together is a bells world.
breathing, centuries.
only between doubleness and decay.
I am snake through page, i am snake and page between us.
I learned how to read in Nevers.
your whole body should be like eyelashes to mine.
no lash, no ash, shhh. they're should drink liquid black gloss and feed me.
I need slipping. and awake. and slipping. my venus earlier than even moon. even moon again. I'm running consciously into your mars, your Mars in ash, in shhh around drawed arrow, grab the hour hand with fist like it's a seance, to move along the same segment, but just further. although I am 4 and you are 3, but I am also 1, and you are 3 for my 1. but I'm 4, but 3 was freedom.
and then I became a moon, and then my home is without any me at the end, only ha, only use. and then i ******* electrically into destruction of hands, into shaking sun.
after knot I find ange* and weapon with inscription «moony hands», between roots
in them and not.
sometimes it's not a form of knife, it's a body with hands and feet, still with beaded inscriptions.
i protect agression with moon knife.
I need write line on the edge of your moon that clinging to my mars and hands. and I don't want to write any word about him.
words of my birth and lust want to know content of nodes.
what drives me out
from under
a down-pour to a room where
I can find paper and ink, only to run back out into the rain?
pull out the all computer parts with wires where there dirt and no outlets outside, or pull it out in the rain and will burn out, the matrices will flow. in pink. on neck.
is it the mad mud moon drives me out to record, or mercury, since his doubleness, was pluto? I think, he's not just an genderless twin and child, he knows how to ****, he's **** my mess. every book and every word rapes me. Persephone rapes herself. and I want to **** the image of Aphrodite with Persephone, with her hair from under scissors.
hermes is hermit, hermes is hides, is hades.
orbiting, or biting.
just not to hide, just to hide.
four days it's a four weeks in month.
for first day I'm a twin, then equal to milk and flower, then half-snake, then suede
and a sketch of languor on the sand gorgeous suede. but it's a 4th day and now i know that i can't enjoy, it will happen tomorrow, although right now i merged with venus, and oeuvre is under venus. but suede under desert sand will happened after sun, and sun will happen only next time, because now it's obviously night.
at the same time i think: "creamy sand suede", "desert suede". about cream and sand at the same time, sandstorms, tiptoes, the sound of word desert like sweetness in different language, and different language in fact is mine.
and hourglass. drawed hourglass, in chalk, two triangles, with circle, like it's head.
inappropriate creativity. I realize how i look forward to desert as the apogee of creativity because sun. and because I'm a half-snake, almost mermaid. only thing that carries here the water right in body. and i thrown my body on another snake, to find wetness, sweetness in each other.
a snake is never a ***** unless it's you who just can't have, hold and just give, just give enough love. and warmdevotion. and attachment without cowardly slipperiness and sleepy glances for what it could means, although most of the time it's about crawling into cognition. and conscious choice of pharmaceutical doze of obsession and surrender. better learn to lean, and cling. and cli. and ling. and L. and in. and intertwine. respect surrender, respect surrender, respect surrender, respect surrender, possession, dissolution and complexes of merging.
but it's a 4 1/2 days, not 4.
I'm half-snake, twin and equal to flower, to the suede.
it's all happening together only in the day of birth.
and then what's happening - the rest of days. and the rest of days because birth I crucified from memorizing this echo and imprint.
and I just have to not suffer from morality
that only depends on time and place, but depends on it like birth.
but just like birth.
so disgusting lovely word order.
I'm that, I'm not twin to flower to snake to suede. I'm four "but", like walls. walls are good and bad. and after birth i can only enjoy how that fifth element of cancer and can'tcer of everything in me, cancer and can'tcer of today, that intertwining tongues of twins on lowest transparent thick flexible aquamarine page in me, speakers and annihilators, where the ocean of sleep like two twins.
it can develop only after years of life.
people with echoes still makes act the right way.
remember that this is the way to act, but forgot that this is the right way.
insert a guilt wire between the layers.
these words in place where self-esteem is hurt,
self in place that curated by editing,
but I'm manifested in conscious mistakes,
in assemblage,
in service,
but in 1st
where solar experience too old, sun tied and overflowed, and in 1st, the reversed node that looks like a normally standing bowl

moon in l
moon in m
moon in mmm
moon in shhh, blue "shhh", blue stars
"innn" in "pain"
"i" in both
"t" in the end of "pain", like when you do the same spit and speed with "sweet".
with "piano" at the end of scorpion.
with "no" of piano sting.
please do "sui" with "sweet". sweetest.
"dictionary - pain" that spreaded on the wall. on walls.
to know pain or to feel?
snakes turning "pain" into "passion".
you need two snakes, in center. taking away "I" from sound.
I'm in st#bborn immersion in mercy, like snakes.
I will find it in mercy or pain?
image, pain. not the image.

black moon and grey moon
little black moon is hook
with handle in a shape of cross like ink-cross on neck.
little black moon ingrained in moon, in empty focus, in identical yours, double manifested, double sticking. in velvet glue, in well wet, in black honey, like cancer. of everything. like can'tcer. of everything. and it's happening in my hands. i have little egyptian bed in psychology of my hands.
most far moon point, her sickle sticking in ****** with one of two ejected disembodied nodes, with weeks-corridors.
they're glued like when day of first *** and day of ******* get glued. their substance cataractize the direction of catharsis.

moan innn ec-lips
between twins tonguess
in sick-red kiss, in sacred ****-red
in drying «yes»
but say not only «yes», but «you» too.
somewhere between yes and you i want to find a word.
fingerlips, lipsnails, leuco-sapphires.
loudmother?
and stick to big skissors. don't live without them.
stick fingers into skull on knees, wash the nameless bones. their voices, they whisper back.
"you are more than this", they hiss. i know they lie — i am only this, only ever this.
I want kissing more than you and you.
no feed, no feet, no free. no water, only fat. no curing, no schools, no studies, go into night like in school, only mouth, only lying
between wars and swords in words, like book that like legs splitting almost equally somewhere between "alice" and "******", "******" and "dracula". between witches and enlightenment, and light of ten men.
talk with words by next word.
ask words of that thing that they're know.
want thank you for each touch of keys.
said one word on the floor, and never stop.
swallow thin short golden chain one by one, from skirt that close to floor, swallow their shhh.
kiss empty fast circle
kiss ardra, kiss bhar, kiss rev
kiss wish, wishash
kiss cats with long crooked necks, a cat that licked raven's head.
stroke between cat's eyes with one finger.
not lips, not much.
is it better to be unkissed or to wander through the streets?
am I ardra, or not? with that through my teeth? am i written "die" or not?
cards thinned like skin, too long in the sun, old cards on belly, tarot on the white long like dress table between fish bones, tarot *****, t-angelo t-anger, and jade walls under my back - that's all I want.
and inner became double.
and three parts.
and the blood on rice on the street-soaked-butcher shop, and hands on it. each grain, each drop.
I don't want to forget the fish bones, boneless rice-worms. street with cauldrons, screams, progression of forms of black birds and animals with suddenly crystal blue membranes and thin-walled clean ***** rolling out of them. with stairs right there. bare ***** smart feet, roll over crossbar and laugh.
please let everything roll over the rocks.
the stones, the bags with ropes, the metal objects.
let the bags with ropes drag themselves into shadows.
please, a burning carriage.
please, fights by the falling waters.
please, horse's eye.
please, no obsession with wholeness.
at the same time I want the only place where I can read the letter to be the tall heated statues, on sun square with chapel, like clocks.
i trace letters with fingertips, burning myself and letter with each word, but it's all will be at statue's feet.
but if "read" could be always tied to "feet", the rest of life is doesn't matter.
and i need Bluebeard with a husband in a wife's room.
all wives are starting to stirring.
I want you like a tree.
I want you like a three.
and i want to lay on the drums. to love creatures without hands.
with what these creatures love? with teeth? with bones? with two cоcks?
I saw the drum that never harsh.
I want drums arranged in lines by mind, under skies with weight of water, I want fcking in every drop of rain that hum like these words with "hum". written in crystal and chitin. i don't wanna room in every teardrop. I don't wanna universe with tree in every drop.
I want drum, I want murd, drum on knees, drum with white fibers, drum as salivary *****, piano like drum, moon shhh and croaks through screen glass into screaming eyes and in body like in alive theater every night. skin-venereal films, nevereal. groove of magnets, loops of sticklips and little, like teeth, pieces. antithesis in backing vocal.
I want the green man and the jade man.
want movie where Hermes in dirt, in mess, want sister of twins, little black m*ss.
I miss you and only a kiss in the many years ago dead cancerous brain of horror movie director calms me down.
the cancerous brain whispers back, "kiss me again".
snakes: do you wanna let them crawling on your body or lying on them?
do you want them crawling or lying?
insomniacs singing scales between us that hum with hymns to the alphabet that tasted and unspoken.
flickered out by flickered tongues.
tongues that are used for smells.
i just want you to swallow all of my secrets, i want that sharing and that buring.
my sense of life is like a secret that has been splash out into the cooling cosmic void. this secret really like secretion, and it flickers and splits there, in the. like Emily. that was Isabelle. when she went to her room...not her room, it's hystorical hysterical slip. but in a separate room with door. It's not hysteria, it's tuberculosis historically, literally, from literature.
hundreds of snakes: were burned.
hundreds of snakes: wife that wants give and give birth to snakes.
give birth hundreds of snakes or two sons?
you ask, and ardra would commend. and would she kiss the ash? would she approve your kiss between worlds unspoken?
«crawl on me», she says, like sister of twins, or maybe, «lie beneath me».

after the skin comes world, not lips, lips comes after world.
cat is vanishes.
whole day on knees.
i lie down in glue velvet. i want touch first with hair or knees? fire unites them.
i spill things from box in the center of room into the glue.
i smear a glue across forehead.
inscription glued or blurred?
it is word "air", because I'm in helmet and I'm flying.
with other ******* my back.
although I'm standing by the dishwasher.
she's the one who flies.
or maybe just today even she's can't and lying instead rehearsals
and watching two girls fly
a children in burgundy
and I come in a circus hammock with ropes and red and aquamarine blankets, huge as ships, with yellow-orange pillows with bright blue tassels and then once his blue eye.
I cover her from above
under the children's hands.
somewhere between bells and chitin,
i lie down in glue
binding skin to different ways to write the word «moment».
I want to hold the moon with all hands here, in this degree, in the place of my tongue,
hold her like ouija tablet, but she's too alive like an animal and continues to rotate,
and I am a dead alphabet, and for every letter every night every month 100 units are pulled out of me, pinched, forced to come up with 100 words and letters for each letter, then choose only words for inanimated objects.
i lie down, i don't wanna write that moon watching me above.
where i belong – in the cut. and scream. pia no. films that sawing the light. just a movies. and almost slaving labour. and my love.
I lie down and just wait for my language to crystallize, and i find a rain in the molasses.
but I want to always hold onto "the moon in mmm", I want "innn" and "lclean" in dictionary.
and I have to bury a cat in the snows, just catch her from the fridge