Aug 2019
You realize you look like
A little person, you're supposed to wake up blazing Pushkin
Your dream, not my ******* fire
I'm so high, I'm writing into the night now
Fast turning and hurting on the crazy fires, and crazy lives make me thrill the shapeless winner
Finding himself in broken places, breathing goth inwards and feeling the shells in the desert sand
Mirages can happen to anyone
As hope is a dangerous thing
Style without art
Do a dangerous thing with it that's what I call art
The writer told the poet, he loved his talk of fire
The poet told the writer you're a poet too, beat in these neon sycamore trees in gregarious places with looks od city sunsets in heroine's meditation
******* up the fast life, never winding it down as it was something the fire that never said sad things and curses smoke
Into the grumpy old man, looking for murders and phobias and senescence with crocodile looks, a name I cannot tame
A genius I understand, a tatterdemalion poor soul in Heaven, and Hell feels nice
Saying old things now sound nice, the web of conspiracy
What does it mean if I'm stuck in this web?
Anyone tell us, if a beer is a chemical for the hydrogen jukebox as the Phoenix burns with ashes and TS Eliot breaths fire in Burnt Norton
Shrubbery of watered fishes in bushes of the merriment of silent way
Seems nice to be a pleasant person in someone's trombone, jazz tells it lik its
We can't talk about as it is, and explain either
So we talk jazz, and the fiery starry accosted soldiers, let's talk about, jazz what wants to say
I celebrate, and sing of heralding the ferrous thing called knowledge, godly rushing waters rusting these engines with experience
And education, as you atr lisyrn
Quite, not what we say
Shadow of dust, and ashes we are the fire t
To coal eyes, and the rebirth of a thousand suns
In remembering the Gunpowder plot in middle ages reeking with beautiful thinkers in winning titlting greatly never hold me tight
Ghosts of my past, freely fling with ambition
Conviction in my sails, and soundly silence gusts of wind
As the red earth of the yelling virility, in the God that wants Goddess
Simplicity is the honest expression of humbling doubts watch as struggling with words
Written in time, crime and sycamore sights, and the traveling life is what I find in the iconic culturalist of hiatuses and despair
Madness is something I understand, as the centrepop is a luggage
On the culling and dreaming of culture, in a lumbering lintel on the lugubrious lavish lascvious laconic lamentable lassoes on the sky to finish this derelict in the mind of art of the named ones
We have given up on them, ad forgotten the veritatem
We can add our suma lumma dumma stalling forks of stammering bouts of frenzies
We can call a sincere stride in the things talked about in unchained hearts on boggling derailed that was a journey in a nutshell, whiskers are something around
Your ear, I write my lights with faceless hushed winds
We are having cigarettes after apocalyptic Bad Nietzsche in high feelings in sharing broken thoughts
We can climb the politics, and Finnish mines as we murmur through valleys under the eyes
I travel at these memories they look back at me
Think back, looking behind I find cigarettes and alcohol lying on the shelf
****** mysteries summed up in one, I don't have any love, but, I'd love pompous frump myself, being funny with myself
I'm out of humor, now I confess my will and save you alive and lives live wire lively and variables searching for veracity on veritable streets filling childhood with a recovery of soothing bells
Healing your crime, your child in your sleep from the start
Dishing out punishment, on the innocent child and steeling my mind and rulers are the for theologists
In the theremin that plays smiling sessions in our prayer
Innocuous baby, in stand there in my conviction and the message, doesn't get across
The back closets the towels in the faucets staring into your corset waist, and you know that can be dangerous thing hoping for the end to become the bisexual, you've found a new numb beginning
A little person, you're supposed to wake up blazing Pushkin
Your dream, not my ******* fire
I'm so high, I'm writing into the night now
Fast turning and hurting on the crazy fires, and crazy lives make me thrill the shapeless winner
Finding himself in broken places, breathing goth inwards and feeling the shells in the desert sand
Mirages can happen to anyone
As hope is a dangerous thing
Style without art
Do a dangerous thing with it that's what I call art
The writer told the poet, he loved his talk of fire
The poet told the writer you're a poet too, beat in these neon sycamore trees in gregarious places with looks od city sunsets in heroine's meditation
******* up the fast life, never winding it down as it was something the fire that never said sad things and curses smoke
Into the grumpy old man, looking for murders and phobias and senescence with crocodile looks, a name I cannot tame
A genius I understand, a tatterdemalion poor soul in Heaven, and Hell feels nice
Saying old things now sound nice, the web of conspiracy
What does it mean if I'm stuck in this web?
Anyone tell us, if a beer is a chemical for the hydrogen jukebox as the Phoenix burns with ashes and TS Eliot breaths fire in Burnt Norton
Shrubbery of watered fishes in bushes of the merriment of silent way
Seems nice to be a pleasant person in someone's trombone, jazz tells it lik its
We can't talk about as it is, and explain either
So we talk jazz, and the fiery starry accosted soldiers, let's talk about, jazz what wants to say
I celebrate, and sing of heralding the ferrous thing called knowledge, godly rushing waters rusting these engines with experience
And education, as you atr lisyrn
Quite, not what we say
Shadow of dust, and ashes we are the fire t
To coal eyes, and the rebirth of a thousand suns
In remembering the Gunpowder plot in middle ages reeking with beautiful thinkers in winning titlting greatly never hold me tight
Ghosts of my past, freely fling with ambition
Conviction in my sails, and soundly silence gusts of wind
As the red earth of the yelling virility, in the God that wants Goddess
Simplicity is the honest expression of humbling doubts watch as struggling with words
Written in time, crime and sycamore sights, and the traveling life is what I find in the iconic culturalist of hiatuses and despair
Madness is something I understand, as the centrepop is a luggage
On the culling and dreaming of culture, in a lumbering lintel on the lugubrious lavish lascvious laconic lamentable lassoes on the sky to finish this derelict in the mind of art of the named ones
We have given up on them, ad forgotten the veritatem
We can add our suma lumma dumma stalling forks of stammering bouts of frenzies
We can call a sincere stride in the things talked about in unchained hearts on boggling derailed that was a journey in a nutshell, whiskers are something around
Your ear, I write my lights with faceless hushed winds
We are having cigarettes after apocalyptic Bad Nietzsche in high feelings in sharing broken thoughts
We can climb the politics, and Finnish mines as we murmur through valleys under the eyes
I travel at these memories they look back at me
Think back, looking behind I find cigarettes and alcohol lying on the shelf
****** mysteries summed up in one, I don't have any love, but, I'd love pompous frump myself, being funny with myself
I'm out of humor, now I confess my will and save you alive and lives live wire lively and variables searching for veracity on veritable streets filling childhood with a recovery of soothing bells
Healing your crime, your child in your sleep from the start
Dishing out punishment, on the innocent child and steeling my mind and rulers are the for theologists
In the theremin that plays smiling sessions in our prayer
Innocuous baby, in stand there in my conviction and the message, doesn't get across
The back closets the towels in the faucets staring into your corset waist, and you know that can be dangerous thing hoping for the end to become the bisexual, you've found a new numb beginning
