How easily does a bush become a bear?
Look,
wait, wait
just a thought, a thought
weaker
link, in one subjected to *******, unawares.
We found the fouled spring still dripping poison,
gifts to liars who promise to retell
all the tales Justine told Juliette in her coma,
those Shakespeare told de Sade,
sad, eh? Too much the bumpkin still, to wield
thy well honed edge?
Split the difference? Egone versus Logarhyme,
wielding versus welding, melding versus melting
say her name bettybluemilliepattyjeaniejanetal
the unnamed ****** and hippy chicks,
ego nailed 'em all, but one, self aware
Sophia kissed me, winked and morphed into the story.
The long one, once described as:
A multi-dimensional novel in merest of media, words
AI in their own right, each idle word redeemed
full of the virtue to make free, as truth.
So simple, comes to its finest point, and line
by line
we stretch that point to make this edge where we tread
sublimely seminal
care-- here
you choose the ad jected aspect of a state a qual of qua
sin non
sololabuena, sophia wontcha be justine, wonchamake me scream
hallelujahlikecohenever'body know, woncha know, oh
yeah.
I discovered, totally by accident, that all the horror stories being retold, once were netted in de Sade and Shakespeare, and some other lesser knowns. Now all the lies your hidden child demands are true, may be imagined, not projected, by you or me, biomic-morphic rejection, per or may haps happening in random happy ways. Tau.
