volume 15 on the local
proceedings to the rekindling 1980s...

away from utilißing headphones,

choice of constrictive soap
opera of the "desire" for space...

incubus' seminal (3rd adjective
                   "concern")
   morning view album:

battery low, i need to resort
to familiar scents of my
mother's kitchen,

volume on par with the concept
of 15,
    and there's a warm fire brewing,
incubator tactics,
like taking care of a premature
baby (which,
somehow isn't a foetus) feels
like...
  
                 crows in mexico?
storks in poland...
  why is it that storks only migrate
north to settle in poland,
as the common "myth" goes...
storks only fly north to mate
in poland...

                   as a pollack:
that's "almost" uncomfortable to state...
should be doing acid
sort of moment,
later beefing it up in a gym...
getting the bulge and the dumb
new jersey blonde scenario...

              volume at 15, headphones
out, and i'm thinking about
cushions, walls, and the surrealism
of not imploding with headphones
in the mobile arena of society...
sunglasses...
                and...

girls that cut themselves...
    one "advice" i can give...
if any...
                     heat up an inch of metal,
whether scissors or fork,
or blade,
   and then press it against your
skin and: surd the event...
allow no sparrow jitters to take hold
of your tongue...

    a bulimic man?
strange, isn't it?
as ever, in america: the double
affirmative: is it not it, it?

         i remember goffing down
sweets from, when lidl was "cheap"
and frowned upon by the british
public...
      but not doing
the *trinity gesture" down
down the throat to regurgitate
bulks, and bulks of the *******...

a reverse of donning the niqab:
peering eyes society,
c.c.t.v.
            britannia...
   and everyone on the coast
didn't mind it, given they were still
fed oranges of the north sea:
with the fruits of the sea in
terms of, the french colloquialy
term mollusks...

       something on the edges of
britain (esp. dover) left me feeling
a complete sense of alienation...
and no matter what competitive
commentator tells me:
  
       that sort of ****?
                      sticks to you, like a tattoo.
it's more than a mere tattoo...
it's a map reading exercise
reflective of the thought mapping
of encompassing a "process"
of individuation...

                     asylum, no asylum,
asylum,
                        no british raj...
asylum,                no asylum...
    chemo-castration of males
using anti-depressant drugs?
                    no america.

butterflies outside my window,
flies crowding a punk scene
into my room...

                        no "summer"...
no scortched grass,
                   no yacht...
  and bongo bongo clubbing
                  from pseudo-mussolini....
cheese-seuz!
             a bit like watching
a retired, and subsequently *******,
russian acrobat!

oh yes, but it's not: how much you
weigh, but the mass...

        so... how can you explain to
me volume 15...
  
             as a depth of noise being
regulated to the instance of
the quality, and translation of
15...

    bypassing the frivolity of
             secondly explaining decibels?

*******... whales' mating call
    to replicate sonar for submarines?!
to hone:
   and replicate (0, 0, 0) genesis
                                   coordinates?!

once a denier, twice the liar,
twice the liar, thrice the "intelligence" officer,
or "shadow" lawyer...

with a concern for a revision of:
music occupying space,
rather than "time",
   at close proximity of my cranium...

what a bollocking!
             a ******* party sentence
to take to riot!
                            or lounge!