Wednesday, April 05, 2006

To the dead beef answering the telephone

Fine land when it tries to be solid extra light in my eye more echoes tasting like leftover giant bunnies that eat pennys and get ship wrecked on route one. Given that there are more than several constructions of what is real and what is believed to real then the unreal escapes just puts the meter together in the morning Sunday ride to nowhere left and right and between can not satisfy the time changes in water suffices as the bunnies fly into the space between voids none other then ten fingers and toes five by big five by five by five the sun race to sideways other than left or right bent into brokenness and rubbish that effects the compost pile where the ants live and eat and dine on left overs rubbish this is all lost inside my mind but I've already exploded yesterday again what up Dr who is this read compost pile of words as I empty my mind into the cup next to the dead beef answering the telephone pay for number six and then there are more echoes of tests so far that there sardines only the number was less than enough to perfect but unlucky not finding any word to describe the feelings of non-nothinging have you slept on the flight back from flying south for the winter where freedom is dumb acute girls in the radio talk like a polka that is played backwards like putting my tears back into my eyes as they try to escape the dr's pills that we never needed to begin with but take for the fun of ITself talking to It's Sunday carpet that hates you any way the sky cries again shipping its needs to the other side of the galaxy where things are exactly the same
like they are in Utah or nations and eating hammock that ever street as scattered barbecue sauce where all the spice is.


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