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Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
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Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
martin-narrod
Irregular Browsing: A Temperamental Prussian Blue
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
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You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July. And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead like a shank of butcher's meat, your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards. I take photos, make reservations, and even after I'm canceled on for walking around downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom. I don't have room for you in the corners. The corners of this room, padded walls, shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines in the specks of light flicking out of the horizon like a carousel ride around and around. I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest. If you want to see me spring, like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face, I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine. Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out in alien-green ******* at that party in the abandoned firehouse on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that (a daydream with sawing you called me) sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon. &
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
martin-narrod
Even While We're Itching
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July. And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead like a shank of butcher's meat, your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards. I take photos, make reservations, and even after I'm canceled on for walking around downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom. I don't have room for you in the corners. The corners of this room, padded walls, shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines in the specks of light flicking out of the horizon like a carousel ride around and around. I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest. If you want to see me spring, like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face, I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine. Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out in alien-green ******* at that party in the abandoned firehouse on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that (a daydream with sawing you called me) sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon. &
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