"tonsils" poems
A newborn to a novice Mom, such a burden all at once, so much to do, the day is gone too soon – a crying bundle makes the night so long
But it is such a joy!
The changes in life are so unreal, schedules can never be the same, but soon a balance will appear, life will be normal once again, Almost!
As years fly by, the bundle grows, the diapers gone now, outgrown clothes, tonsils out, braces in, “why can’t I go” a familiar sound!
And all too soon that little bundle of joy is ready to face the world.
We hope that we have done a good job, and we try not to hold them too tight to us, we must let go!
The time has come to let them fly, that tiny hand that clung to you has grown and holds another now.
Don’t cry Mom, don’t be sad, it’s all been worth it, and maybe soon, another small bundle will enter your life, and ah, who is the novice now??
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.
Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.
The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.
The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.
Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.
The: Oh. My. God!
The: ***** is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.
Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
membranes bleed in classic fashion
seep into my brain with passion
pump my heart with fuel and tension
feeling like a villains henchman
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
mr rogers asks for entry
everything gets past the sentry
powdered sugar makes me antsy
for whatever suits my fancy
im too focused for my brain
all the colours look the same
bow to gods that i dont need
if it'll cause my nose to bleed
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i dont know how you could appose
i'll just lay here taking several blows
i need you cause i want you bad
the sweetest girl i've ever had
is whiter than the winter's snow
i love it when she's in my nose
oh, i've been told to get in line
that my whole lifes a waste of time
but i've got everything i need
as long as i can do the deed
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
i see whiter than the snow
and i dont know how far i can go
blow me baby, how did i know?
one more chance to powder my nose
hardly straight, no arrows bow
an early start for whole new lows
Tonsils set aflame
I can't complain
I've only got myself to blame
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
Yeah it's one shot one ****
Plottin' against my enemies will soon to be killed
Bullets feedin' ya last meal
Dope rhymes sedatin' like pharmacy pills
Since hataz got no chill heads I'll drill now you leakin' out like oil spills
Or a radiator angelic caters none could create a
Flows nasty as mine poppin' a multiplicity of shells I'm one of a kind
Thoughts intertwined
****** into a demons intervention contenders in suspension from the soul lynching
Caught in the realms of heaven and hell & you can smell
The ashes burning fermentin'
time runnin' slower than molasses
My murders be classic enemies dramatic causin' static
Shoot more than Bird combined with Magic
Workin' my Johnson on the tracks tonsils sittin' as a hip hop consul underground magul
**** longer than Repunzels hair follicles
Cookin' up sigils into a *** of gold no rainbow snortin' sir nose
D'void of Funk rattlin' the earth from the bass in my trunk blazin' skunks
Abraxas I'm embracin' one of my goetias when facin' ain't no replacin'
Fools givin' chase
and to tastes of demonic faces
My flows replenish like **** laces
Blunts turn into ashes dump it out on the masses
Epidemic mase deaden your pace hazardous like toxic waste
Adversaries don't wanna face
Off like Nicolas to Travolta livin' in an ultra violent culture
Cleatin' into ya flesh I be the stalkin' Vulture mulchin' ya
'til ya
A dissembled particle blank photo in the article from curvin' emcees with my surgical
lyrical sickle stare into ya eyes as the blood trickles
Down ya body you easily brickled rhymes artificial
My soul sour as a pickle no tickles
Could move me or influence thee my legacy
Lay cinematography like A. Hitchcock in the 50s huh
Ya soon to be a death reel for thrills
Rememeber
All I need is one shot one **** forreal!!!!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Through lines
attach themselves to me
I'm a zip line zipping through the canopy.
Zip lines
through lines
My life in dots and dashes.
There was that darkness
before I was born
don't remember much about that.
Parents were through lines
for a long while
then they died
grandparents before
they all had their time
through lines
zip lines
strings
the true string theory.
Homesickness, school, bullies, too
the Sunday Night Blues
riding those zip lines
through lines
what are you gonna do
they aren't leaving you.
************
Resignation
private fantasies
too private to tell
through lines too
on the old zip line.
The voices in your mind
that's been a through line
through and through.
Poverty that was true too
that's what happens when you
peak too soon
and
you're a late bloomer too.
Children, the through lines
children of children
and you too
through lines zipping through
along the old zip line.
Poetry, a through line
sharing secrets
sacred circles
those are through lines too.
Body parts
hearts, limbs, lungs, guts and toes
though those tonsils
had to go.
Every breath
Every heart beat.
My through lines
your through lines
we all got'em
parallel points on parallel lines
I can't say
I know we sometimes together zip
along that same highway
then one will fade
and one will go away.
But where we all meet
each day,
I can say,
in the molecules
of every breath we take.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
Casper was ****** in the *** by fifty Muslims.
He was ****** twenty-five times on top.
He was also ****** thirty-seven times bent over a wheelbarrow
And eleven more times at the bank.
He was ****** at night in the ***
His *** was a bit ruptured.
He was born for getting ass-rammed!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper got ****** in the *** brutally
And the fifty Muslims' ***** was ****** on his tonsils.
He was up to his eyeballs in Muslim ****
He was so full of *** he had to ****
This guy really took a **** pushed away the Muslim ****
And took his own ********
And started ******* himself in his *** brutally.
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper was taken to a hospital by an ambulance.
At the hospital, he told the doctor to say ******* licker".
After the doctor said ******* licker".
He got on top of Casper and started ******* him in his *** brutally.
So far, Casper was diagnosed with holy freakaholic
And became loose for super duper maneuvers!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Rock over London, Rock on Chicago!
Western Union: It's the Fastest Way To Send Money!
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people stuck in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point. The face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”. We are wondering how to propose to the Grim Reaper because at this point, he is the only man who can “make us straight”, at least in my case. Others would give him a blow in exchange for their soul. The asexuals, though, are finding the words to ask death out on a coffee date. We’re all just thinking and wishing. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago. Maybe around the same time we were in the closets writing our suicide notes. For me it was the day my mother said the idea of me having lesbian friends gave her headaches. Let me not even get into how high her blood pressure would rise if I told her she had a pansexual daughter. “Had”. Now I am but a corpse living among the resurrected by Christ and I constantly ask myself when God is going to baptize me. I ask myself when I am going to stop looking like a zombie from the Walking Dead because, ******* it, I never learned the script or signed up for any of this. I never even wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to sing the songs of my love for her and let the paparazzi spread rumors of how I cheated because I’m that ******* hot. Mother, I wanted to be a singer, but you ripped my tonsils out and told me to smile for the camera and look pretty. But mother, have you ever thought of something? What if she’s the only one I want to look pretty for?
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
Something special is dying here.
I'm going against a pattern,
and even though it ends
in my misfortune,
I can't stop. I won't stop.
How do I draw blood from stones
as a miracle whispered through
the tonsils of demons? Simple.
I am a monument.
A testament of free will gone awry.
I'm a mustache twirling antagonist;
I made Christ weep,
and bound his mother
to the railroad tracks.
I know, I know,
that hero is going to save your day,
and I'll be in chains or
in a bottomless hole somewhere,
but let me ask these victims,
"What would the other monument be,
if not for myself?"
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
every man for himself--am i a man or a self?
wearing long suspenders and
smoking my tonsils raw
a handful of questionable virtue
and inexpensive self confidence
i am no longer your folk hero,
but rather a jolly youth that hates degenerates
i'll fall out of my chair to keep
my ear to the ground
i must listen for change
yes, and between the mattress, shrieking
and the myterious column of faces
appears the fog in twilight, swallowing
***** tonk doors and vagabonds whole
i am a strange left handed moon man,
i'm high
i have that paralyzing lonesome feeling
i have nothing new to add, that feeling
i am an ambassador without *****
almost pornographic
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
These charcoal dark shadows hang beneath eyes of carbon blue.
Carrying the memories of sinister scenes, washed clean, but stained with the salt of regret.
Shame.
Mortification.
The sorrows of living within the frame of some unseen stranger's lack of obligation- irreverent and unattending to the consequences of unrestrained pleasure.
In the background, the slick black vapor slides back into illusion's nest, unfound. Within this restless cradle, ever-raging, silent battles fought.
That daily dose which nearly burned and boiled and blotted them out.
Never triumphant.
A pawn in a profiteer's pyramid scheme.
A beast in bloom, bound to eternal flowering.
Poverty empowering the privileged hand. Our death, stretched far and wide still tortures and taunts and tears us from peace- day after day, week after week, and year after year.
Trapped in a cage whose bars are not there. Whose locks have no key.
We scream and cry til out voices break and our tonsils bleed, but no one on the other side can hear.
We play our part for family and friends but deep down inside we know how this ends. We pretend to go on, but we know we are dead.
We are victims of big pharma and our ribbon is red.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
There are days
when my soul feels
stretched out
like a ribbon
emotions
hang
ing
from a thread
on the line,
like laundry, for
all to see, on pegs
vulnerable
in storms
letting wind caress
and sometimes whip them
round in beaten time
like a tempest
They tend to
get bruised, secretly
battered internally
as the surface of me smiles
and marches on
Vocal chords tightening
as the larynx longs
in primal urge
to take out the words
in one long
graceful arc
of purge
On these days I
need to sit
in the cloudforms
of my mind's eye
and let myself feel
what I cannot show:
the daily coldness gnawing
at my innards
blow by icy blow
In these hours
I must let the tears
well up and run down
until the sting of salt
penetrates the glacier
let the significance of
unspoken words
rise up from
the deep dermis layers
into my throat, my tonsils
up to the palate and tongue
out through my lips
to the heavens,
releasing the unsung
those words caught within
the walls of my neck -
they almost make me choke
exhaust contamination
from heavy, unseen smoke
It billows up and out
and soon, like
hard-worked magic
this morse code is busted
because I am sick of feeling tragic
I command clear
communication
to filter through
the spasms of fog
in drops of dew
I command my words to be heard
in tiny spikes of sun
And all the while
in clear spirals,
a prayer commences to
be spun:
for the harsh
and bitter
be flushed out
in unabated, icy rush
for my soul to rise up
for the cleansing
in aching spirit blush
for the painfulness
of silence
to be ground out
upon the floor
for the shadows of
the violence
to be obliterated
to the
core
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(separate of the pillars that bowl past heavy tonsils
maybe it'd seem as though heaven was closer
and the nuzzle that triggers tiny slips and
flicks against the pulse of my fingers would come alive
behind large bulbs and very tiny eyes,
much too small to fully engulf mild realities wild
on the bottoms of tough poison, mulct philomaths'
raffishly spatting at loose tongues,
how dare they tell me)
this
(and)
that
(and never)
the other.
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(would it count to you, dear scholar,
as a structured poem properly scrolling
down the braces of my spine?)
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.
As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.
During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.
I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.
Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.
st - 20 mar 14
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
I am alive & just barely;
my throat is closing off
with hard, precious cancer eggs
tucked safely where my tonsils
are supposed to sit.
my fingernails this lovely
shade of purple, a deeply
blueish tint influencing them
almost indigo. They tattle,
silently proclaim my complacent
malnutrition. the moons of my manicure
have sunk backwards, eve
returns to dusk, my favorite
time of day, where the quiet
begins, the candle may be lit,
& the eyes I always feel on me
are at least shadowed from my vision.
the coffee is so black
pulsing through my shrunken veins
that my tears are caffeinated.
even when I don't hold a cigarette,
I see the smoke under my breath.
my hands & feet are always cold,
my muscles tremble & I swoon
when we try to stand strong together.
there is turmoil
constant static
in the fissures of the grey matter.
well? tell me! does it really matter?
my bones ache
my face breaks
oh, this Exist Contemplate.
my government has always
been corrupt; the city walls
are finally wearing, having
borne the onslaught for decade
& decade. oh, the Burn & Blister.
I crawl to my coffin without your permission;
Where are you, my Handsome Benediction?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
The chemo makes you tired at first,
So you tend to sleep the day of treatment.
But throughout the week,
The radiation takes its toll.
I watch it slowly unfurl inside of you.
Your joints ache like there are embers between the bones,
And your belly fills with hot, heavy lead,
And your tonsils swell with fluid,
And your ******* traitorous with tumors, are sore and bruised.
This is a pain that eats at you:
Your nerves, your patience, your kind words.
You’re a ***** Vicious and unrepentant. It hurts.
I become petty and spiteful,
Convinced you are determined to make me suffer with you.
You tell me that I don’t care about you anymore.
And I ask you why you can’t appreciate the things I do for you more.
But today,
You showed me how your hair had lost most of its ***** curls,
The follicles soft and preparing for departure,
And you cried because your wig, while pretty, didn’t look like you.
I can only hold your swollen hand
And promise to draw your eyebrows for you.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:16 AM UTC
The urban legend going round the mummy club
A woman
On a tube
Breastfeeding her baby, 5 months old, under her t shirt.
Not **** out
No feminist flags waving
No brazen cocky smile.
Just a hungry baby and a mother made by nature
And some milk
"Put em away Love", slurs an ugly man halfway down the carriage.
The other passengers are divided.
Some sink deeper into their headphones, under their broadsheets.
The others are ready for revolution, sit up straighter and plan an attack phrase or a protective move.
But this is what she's been waiting for since she so triumphantly became a successful, proud breastfeeder.
With a wet plucking noise she pulls her baby from the ****** where he was so contentedly feeding, where his warm little head was halfway to milky coma dreamland.
And she holds him aloft, her grip is confident and full. No one is afraid she will drop him, but he does not want to be there.
And in the stark light of the carriage, arms and legs chilly and free in the air he begins to flail them about. His voice throws out mews to every window of the carriage, turning into scratchy shouts as his protest gets stronger.
Until the baby, in a blue furry jumper, little bear ears for cute effect, is screaming.
Red faced, and with tonsils and tongue vibrating in the storm of his voice.
Arms and legs swimming frantically, looking for the bank of the river where warm mummy sits.
And over the storm, mummy looks over at the swaying, squinting man and shouts,
"WOULD YOU PREFER THIS?"
In one movement she cradles the yelling blue cub, shushing and quietly speaking to him as only a mother can, offering her ****** to his mouth until his round fuzzy head is bobbing and his mouth quietly busy resuming his meal.
"Or this? " She looks over at him.
The man mutters to himself and looks away. At the next stop he gets off the train, tripping down the step onto the platform.
The mother releases the challenge in one large breath.
She looks up at the two young men sat in front of her.
They are smiling, staring in awe. Choking and speechless one of them starts to applaud her.
Clapping her and shaking his head, his mate joins in.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
I had hoped
she would suffer
the same fate as I,
salt kissed bruises harsh
against the ivory of her neck,
salt lingering between her tonsils,
drowning in the ocean of those eyes.
He saved her.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
You say you're happy when she smiles
It brightens up your life
It brings you endless comfort
It gives you sense of peace
She says she'll bet a dime
That if she ever grinned
You'd back away in fear
Or hate her just the same
And when she doesn't plan on fierceness
It comes easily
Not too aggressive, no motivations,
Simply living in the moment
When you say to be happy,
You mean anti-suicide
You mean anti-guilt on your part
You mean anti-blame
And when they fall for it
And praise life
And smile
You walk away
It's a big smear-campaign
They love it when you're down
The light shines stronger on them that way
It's a subconscious conscious thing-
A means for the tonsils to get unhinged
You say do what you wish
The sun will shine in time
You say this with serenity
Though it never reached your vocabulary
You say just be yourself
The world will come to understand
But you say it with conviction
Cause you've never tried it yourself
Face the truth-
From the outside looking in
It's a whole lot better being optimistic
When your soul isn't on the line
Face the truth-
In walking the outcast path
You're not embraced
Only scorned
Face the truth-
One who is one
Knows they can't stray,
Even if they choose
Face the truth-
If you were me and I were you
And you were in my shoes,
Would you smile?
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
Our flesh makes words
which are caught
like peanut butter
on the roofs of our mouths. Trapped
by teeth
until they can be freed.
But they’re too alive
for our unmoving lips
and we’re choking
on the verbs that won’t cease,
the nouns that fight,
and the adjectives that breathe
and beat
against our natural rhythms.
We've got participles
dangling from our tonsils.
On our imperfect palates,
they form sentences.
Thoughts.
Ideas
that must be spoken.
Shared.
Heard.
These words that form
in the madness of our hearts
and bubble
in the heat of our cheeks
aren't questions,
suggestions
or even statements.
They are commands.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
How I love the smell of your *****
As you straddle my eager open mouth
My tongue licks at your mighty ****
As your canines brush my engorged ****
How I love the taste of your throbbing ****
O the feel of your spotty **** in my hands!
How my tonsils risk a ****** good bruising!
And lo! my ***** get stuck between your teeth!
Then your ***** gushes down my hungry cake-hole
And my salty ***** juices run down your fat chin -
But the best bit so far, is if we skilfully manage
To let fly two foetid mutual simultaneous farts.
But now, folks, we get to the really good bit
The bit which we have both been waiting for:
Out come our joint warm streams of diarrheoa
Drenching our excited faces in noisome filth.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
i still think about you
every ******* day.
feet flat on the tile floor
eyes locked with myself in the mirror
foamy lips and the bristles of my tooth brush
methodically scraping memories of you,
residue of our relationship,
white plaque off white teeth
like it makes a ******* difference.
i grind the back ones down
each night
in an attempt to forget you, i think.
hopefully one day i'll wake up
just gums.
but now, as i gargle
i can see the face you would make
as i rubbed the head of my ****
against the inside of your belly button
trying to get it
to come out the other side
and sometimes i would
press on your belly
to see if i was close to breaking through
and your eyes would disappear
and you would open your mouth
s o w i d e
i could see you still had your tonsils
and i would go to kiss that
gasping mouth of yours
and you'd act like
i wasn't there
at all.
so i spit that ghost into the sink
and watch it linger there before
it has a chance to spill down
the pipes clogged with your hair
and i think..
...i'm gonna go ahead
and take down all the mirrors
in this apartment..
...as i blink at my reflection.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 2:24 PM UTC
haven't written
for
a while
tonsils
kickin'
up
my style
anger-grump-red-eyesies-ness
la la la la
stress
heads
watchin' watchin' watchin
moi
(are you?)
(tryin'tryin'tryin')
to find you
two
i
am
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
I want to see where nice words are used on young ladies.
Damned Rome of rude-bred heights from the balcony of the city of dynamite. The villagers sacrifice their seven pounds of worry, and sleep like children in caves of textile reactors. Souls packed in coins and gasoline sin are sold hot at the bazaar on a University campus in America. What the **** do these lambs do in societal gardens? What the hell do pets know watching letters drizzle from the clouds? Parcel dreams scattered on foster children--I want to know where all our words for niceties went when we paid the women to be young.
Devils make knees slick
barbwire anacondas bless our country
write a laugh--write a song--and we will all work it out
We--used as a rapier to categorize the salt in vigorous blood flow--the bells, the bells of centuries worth of midnights. I--the edited cobble in roads that precipitation breaks in stride. Hearing the rambles of lucky men in the next room, but I know young ladies don't kiss and tell to friends they find effeminate, they rupture and explode. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh with squeaky voices as true as poetry. Now they mumble till they are paid.
But you--are no ********** just an empty glass with chunks of broken accents skipping deadlines in life, for new deadlines in life. Abstract puzzle pieces resemble therapy that burns the interrupted wick in--you.
But as for--them--they--or others--delirium commercializes whispers aching the back of their tonsils till there is no relief, but coin to pay for more coin that will pay for more coin. Relief is in another language they refuse to learn because they are arrogant.
Cats scowl at one in the morning for attention, nails anchored in carpet, the rest of us are tired by the week of spending. They want more, more, more--till the gates in your eyes open.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC