Aug 2019
I'm howling under the little tree
Becoming quiet, becoming a pole
Lank, hankering on the ransacked goals stealing the sleep from, meaningful free prose with the simple words that stole my sleep, I want your hand
Don't you wanna dance in the dark
Butchering Sundance, in the kid of the friable apartment
Apartment 145-146, today's last cries on the radio on Central park songs
That's alright to turn the radio and explain the positively rhapsodic living sphinx riddle, be killed by it or understand it
Across midnight skies, and shirk the sins, and scream with the pursuit of desires in Tangiermen
Burning with Illmatic fire on the sunflower beads with sultry kisses on the nape of your neck
For happiness, I live in a time where we are quixotic
Blind with angel hippie looking for Alhambra, to ruin their with happiness, with mindful language burning in the circles of hell reigning with boundaries of paradoxical paradise lost
Some of us are a locked stocked barrel gun in machine tombs Barros creating sorrows, likeness to a warm run on Spain
An open book within without a son is like a train journey, it stays like a good friend in the Blake Light of burning Solaris
We were on the run on, Goldman Train running the errands like a kid waiting for the gold rush on the cast across acrobat, back and forth should I sat or should I go like the ultimate punk
Counting the stars just like you, easing ego in the poetry losing myself in strains of woes in a parceled nosegay which time clutched from Empyrean isles
Ginsberg meeting Walt Whitman in the supermarket sharing the list of cultured vegetables in Elysian isles, California in the catcher of eye fields
It's all coming together.
Becoming quiet, becoming a pole
Lank, hankering on the ransacked goals stealing the sleep from, meaningful free prose with the simple words that stole my sleep, I want your hand
Don't you wanna dance in the dark
Butchering Sundance, in the kid of the friable apartment
Apartment 145-146, today's last cries on the radio on Central park songs
That's alright to turn the radio and explain the positively rhapsodic living sphinx riddle, be killed by it or understand it
Across midnight skies, and shirk the sins, and scream with the pursuit of desires in Tangiermen
Burning with Illmatic fire on the sunflower beads with sultry kisses on the nape of your neck
For happiness, I live in a time where we are quixotic
Blind with angel hippie looking for Alhambra, to ruin their with happiness, with mindful language burning in the circles of hell reigning with boundaries of paradoxical paradise lost
Some of us are a locked stocked barrel gun in machine tombs Barros creating sorrows, likeness to a warm run on Spain
An open book within without a son is like a train journey, it stays like a good friend in the Blake Light of burning Solaris
We were on the run on, Goldman Train running the errands like a kid waiting for the gold rush on the cast across acrobat, back and forth should I sat or should I go like the ultimate punk
Counting the stars just like you, easing ego in the poetry losing myself in strains of woes in a parceled nosegay which time clutched from Empyrean isles
Ginsberg meeting Walt Whitman in the supermarket sharing the list of cultured vegetables in Elysian isles, California in the catcher of eye fields
It's all coming together.
Because the wind is high, happiness is true, love is you, crossing the rivers of heralded fools, worshipping their ideals likewise men with intelligence. Looking for something, we are in a country that is intelligent and has tools too, in the works of a corporeal industrial sunflower touch madness. Pop the center of it all, the feed needs work, freed out. Growing with every wildflower that knows passion, and knows it for sure without needing windowpanes for sure. The eyes are the windows to your soul looking for anything, changing us with the way we fold up the days, and the nights cut throughout the last talks of Independence, and an abundant need of free people. Some of these are worlds apart from being on their knees, or even praying for a ***** beard. Lacking **** *****, and Adonis of the Ganges, sitting on the endless river looking for coroners. Anybody drowning in the coronation of a passion project. Talk about passion, we cannot.
"Power is the aphrodisiac"- Henry Kissinger said so as he triumphed with Theranos, oh yeah i need my illegal surrogacy from the spectral nation, right right, I need your books and ****** banks.
The children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Boy, you got the New Year's Day in your eyes, fire in the nameless streets understanding the oil and the water. Stretching out into the thin cow.
"Power is the aphrodisiac"- Henry Kissinger said so as he triumphed with Theranos, oh yeah i need my illegal surrogacy from the spectral nation, right right, I need your books and ****** banks.
The children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Boy, you got the New Year's Day in your eyes, fire in the nameless streets understanding the oil and the water. Stretching out into the thin cow.
