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As in confused water, the sludge sits down in the heart and soul of man now well a memory, past, and present; What the other is interested in the exibitionist embryo surface, when it does, scraps its own selfish-mushy profit-making every day. Wave-broken, crushed torso images clings to the fragments of those who have not yet been forgotten and may not really be able to recreate or re-create a broken situation, a gesture of gestures, the dance of manipulative pupils that can be seen on waxy faces.

He sits with a curved soul, tame, and obese the hesitant indifference, if there is none, no longer, which would actually be rebellious. Soft, snow-white babies rumble roller drums and pikes to see if someone else hears. Why, how can a man be only a spinning sacrifice for this current nonsense, vulnerable age?!

Distorted sermon speeches proclaim sufficiently rotting ideas, which, if no one cares, lightly pimple and wash the brain's thoughtful creative tissue. The thought - feared - can hardly scream. Because perhaps a long time in man has been accumulated in every reason to be disgusted and nailed to the stupid, humble wickedness.

For sure, what is certain, it would be good to understand what is certain; Man is running deeper, even in the spiral of refugees, if you think you want to finally understand yourself for a lifetime. Every lap will run around, maybe you can come back to you once!
Rick 12h
she disappeared into the shadows of the night,
skimming through the uproarious parties
like stone across the lake
until she sunk into
the gruesome arms
of another man
behind my sleeping back.

and there he was, pounding away
like some big dumb animal
at something I held sacred
as if bonds were meant to be broken
and boundaries were made permeable

and there she was,
taking it,
loving it,
enjoying it,
doing it to spite me
and knowing it would hurt.

and there I was, the last to know
in the dark circles of whispering
secrecy

it’s the all-too-familiar cycle
of passion and appetite;

swallowed by the underbelly of lust and
tormented by the foretaste of my presence

I can’t blame them,
I can’t blame myself,
it’s only nature
taking
its course.

and I can’t say this is written
about anyone specifically,

when it happened

far too many times.
smoke lingered throughout the air
illuminating my father’s face
and shadowing my mother’s
the bud of the cigarette catching fire
the somberness of this second fading in the distance
a memory being erased
the screams gone silent
her hysterical tears scrubbed harshly from her face
the look of shock smeared from mine
but father stayed still
through the cries he stayed still
and he let the moonlight trickle in through the window
reflecting off of his watch
the seconds ticking into minutes
and transitioning into hours.

we sit for hours in silence
in grief, torment, misery
letting the sound of shuddered breath
and last drags of cigarettes
ghostly wisps in the air
fill the room.
i know they’re concrete bumper slugs because the slime leads right to them. the trails are obvious every morning and then the sun ingurgitates them leaving a glittery residue.

it is an aberrant cursive, some curse for their brethren snails to decipher.

the customers don’t believe me. they doubt that and they doubt the fees i’m told to tuck under their paper packet and they doubt the slugs are solving math proofs and they doubt interest is a thing of the heart. but it is and don’t tell my concrete parking lot bumper slugs otherwise.

curses are foldable, or the best ones are, and that is why i become the passive utterances of a wise woman when she calls me to question. i will fold so quickly don’t test me.

with a grain of salt, the glitter stain takes a chalky quality. pique my glasses, tap on my clipboard, make slow circles around the concrete fringes to consult with the grass.

it seems like the slugs are solving the complexity of theorem proving procedures. if we call the Federal Math Department (FMD) then they better know what these slugs are on about.

i would love to liberate them from this parking lot. i would love for them to sit by rivers and make bumper slug babies. lovers pushing strollers would beckon to them and say, “that’s who solved the complexity of theorem proving procedures.”

even the reader is starting to doubt me. starting to doubt the fees i’ve tucked in here. maybe even doubting the intellect of these bumper slugs.

please.

they just need more time. their snail brothers just don’t get it. i have it all right here, just wait until the FMD gets here. just wait until the sun spits it all back to us. don’t doubt it.
nylon ***** 03
With a naive, almost smiling, faithful faith, I did not know for a long time that the world was saturated with blood, dirt, filth. Wherever I look, I look like a crowd of human-mass dariders, like so many flat-off worms traveling in flat-off, who would be able to ride each other, if they could do it. The only question is who is better off with the ins and outs of bribe, manipulation, who has enough dare to dream and step forward with a great big ostrich steps?!

I feel like pulling towards the vortex of depths every day, pulling down the many millions of scrambles and petty intrusion of everyday life; Because everyone wants to get ahead of the rank, but in love, just like the superficial, exibimentist words of the pseudo-pads, just as just the ladder, but in love.

This currently disappointing, fat flattening in this current world is a bile mixed with nausea towards my throat, and if I need to, if I need it, only my own sins, pathetic childish clown shots, if they can count on anything.

I deliberately left the company of dogmas that preach, and I deliberately left the moles of ivory towers, but I don't have to listen to so many incomprehensible, folly rice texts about the promises of the uncertain future.

It is not possible to slow down the rarely stolen time to become a holy shelter of instantaneous rich words, just like for minutes; Because it can be delayed for decades, while "some" continue to bury the old-fashioned cannibal time!
a line of claymores hang from the fuselage. the trees wince from the feint. even though they know the cut of wind in winter. it’s a game to get by with a parachute.

i try to use upcycled versions with the holes properly patched.

i bring a little bell pepper with me and whisper into its fuzzy bottom that we’re going to be ok. we’ve gone at least a week without fajitas.

nylon comes from meshes and bristles, from quilts and frayed edges. i heard in the vault of DuPont they have the only nylon doll. she is the bravest of all trees.

my stomach gurgles and dissociates and slips into an anomalous extradimensional space and lurches from liminal backflips. it must be Tuesday. or some other onerous occasion like the first mycorrhizal shiver.

what if canaries made gay love in coal mines? what if they sang with the intimacy of warning? what if we feared their silence before it came?

dicyclomine has a mean plasma elimination half life of 1.8 hours. its wrapper however, part plastic, part foil, part waste, part breached, part fingernail slice, part flattened, part incinerated, part carbonized, part smoke, part dust, part forever, part brain-burn, part palinopsia.

the aircraft avoids chemical manufacturers and places of dangerous business because a falling claymore could spell disaster.

fasten my goggles one more time, kiss my bell pepper, start the slow journey home and apologize to all the trees on my way down.
nylon ***** 02
tree burls and fish tumors, both knotted buds, both of growth gone sickly, both enclosed history. ever open a book with a knife? has it ever been cake with a message on it?

one time the sun (the ticklish version) set over the river and it rose underwater. it only happened once, so it’s a well kept secret told in filter-feeder folktales.

i hear their gurgling sometimes, it follows me like a scared balloon and knocks brittle craft supplies off the shelf. it once set off a carbon monoxide alarm. the gurgling can even steal my nose hairs if it gets close enough.

it’s not even fusiform. it’s more vermiform if anything…

which of my sounds haunts my mother? i know that memories line my lips like casted hooks. they clink in my storytelling. Chubbles plays with them when i whisper close to his face. we are bonded because i smell like off-brand tuna and lab fish.

i’m not alone, nor lonely, just in a lonely story. the same isn’t true for the others.

resting my coat on the burls, the river rejects the distant light. bespectacled seams of twined liters, stitching a glass pupil and pulsing cataracts. in the winter, a river spoils blindness and starves visibility.
nylon ***** 01
It would be good just to have a child-faith, even in a playful time in the Garden of Timelessness, just a little bit to understand a little to understand the absolute references of the Kitin soul. Or maybe it would be better for Robinson's shipwreck to survive forever, who would rather escape the country of dreams because he dreads the wolf trap of reality?!

It would be good to drop every duty jacket once and for all; The thirty-six-hour verb-robot burden, which not only carries a harsh body of the body, carrying lead-in-the-scrubs, but also an office public official is at least as fed up with the small campaigns of constant chopping. The slightly confusing life drive, which has been closed in lines, is extinguished by the misery of everyday life.

The equalized voltage contradictions will wake up, then tense to each other, even under a careless moment or a lost sigh-era: Is it worth it?! Only the next transient time can only be done. - The tree of wisdom, free thoughts, as well as other insignificant so -called. Freedoms no longer grow by themselves, because "some" first sprinkled the land of common sense and intellect with salt and later acidic acids, which made almost everyone at the time of the brain.

It would often be better to have a total disappointment, because then the wise man would no longer be able to trust his mere coincidence to the otherwise uncertain fate or the forces of invisible doom.
i never noticed the pimples placed around my cheeks and the roughness of my hands intertwined around soft ones. i never batted an eye at my failed attempt at wing eyeliner until i saw girls my age’s eyelashes were longer than mine and their eye makeup sparkled with the L.E.D lights at parties. then i made it my mission to pump three pumps of lotion onto my hands and wash my face religiously and spend thirty minutes in the mirror before school, even if it meant i’d be late. i never knew the standards i set for myself until i realized the pedestal was too high for me to climb. i always told myself i wasn’t afraid of heights but broke down in tears when i got back my test and saw my teacher’s red-inked mark ups. faults of mine swallowed me whole and spat me out into a more flawed version of myself with tears smearing down my cheeks and smudged eyeliner covering my eyes and pimple patches peppered on my face and dry skin all up my arms. i wrote perfectionist in big, bold red letters but was too perfect to notice. i always told myself i wasn’t afraid of heights so i went above and beyond my ambitions, too consumed to realize my high standards were too high for me to reach.
Like the winged oak hood, the wounded soul is increasingly closing the petal; which remained faithfully. He could never want anything but believe in ourselves. Delived, if you need to do ready -made will, modest, noble humility, until you can. Perhaps the secret to everything is that it remains a bribe in one place - but it is resistant.

He expects a receipt and hopes for the nirvana-nothing's *******, giving up existence as a careless, twisted minute, and he will not deliberately greet himself if he cannot understand something that has nothing to do with the transparent coordinate system. He understands sooner or later, like the overgrown head, that he was not referenced to himself, in a lonely loneliness because it is so cool or fun-but because he needed the momentary illusion of his calm.

They turn over his head faint, almost invisible decades of decades, which have lost historical ages, or that no one may remember enough; Baja will sooner or later come to everyone.

For even now the bribery-surviving soul is increasingly sinking into itself; Not only the alchemy of the bodies, but also the unceasing spiral passage of the bodies, preserves a vomiting, difficult look. The coast of logical reason should never leave or get rid of it, which is a matter of thinking, because it gives a question of a suspicious question of a falsified age!
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