one of
the rugs holds my haze, not yours
ragged
and dense and high and flat and splayed,
anchored
to the floor by a near-dead dog's
longballs
bobbing in the room below
unsaid
shoe beheading on
a
different lawn, in the time it took
to die
into a cusp
our
community is taking away less
and
less, lets the sewer age into its own filets;
socially
incorporeal in the same particle
is the
most squid for a jumpsuit
there's
an odd little fire on the mines,
tungsten
in terms of closet air
pelvic
in its incorporation of a street;
I like
that I sign luridly before glancing by,
I
wanna try a council block irreversible in the nose
if
runny fails, dumb will handle the pressure
the
motion simultaneously stops the unidentified
object
bouncing on the bed,
until
about the point at which, later in the episode,
sort
of mixing with it, the ceiling grants us
the
full ebay version of a context
we're
generally, after every episode,
' -
did which of the perpetual motion machines
this
time slip in bird shit?'
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