Point lays finely on the grass, the dust is still.
a fume settling line winds still abrubt!
Caves live in the days when frogs leaped out of the fury and kept me starving,
this minute is bleak like the rock wail of an aligator. making its mind blissfuly climb up the furrows of its green and luminscent back,
and then we stand at the tip of a rope an artist licked by the corner feet of his own ankles express joy when he is blinded by the lips of others red right
before he beings to not hear sound but just song, the crown crease crowd
warms in to jeer and they are a bee stinging his diagphram, relentless of what he might cause
and narcissus waits
and I lay the waste in a pool of my own blood like
liquorish on the stepping stones of a park laced with snail trails and distance that glances the waking of fear in our hearts.
this is more than just a tale of maiming and playing
the plain unsettle this but when the subconsious leaks
so does Egypt lie and fall and lay it self up again in the claws
the female in the male, lazy is the guilt of the child,
the child within
he is stumble he is
deaf
he is witty
he is worry like plane
unknown to man
he is not finished yet his castle in the eye,
the baking of the water and the manta
rays
the lips syncing like the dayz
this forseen blooms over again the red embrace of men kept to each others
jaw shapes
I'll willows grip and
stay ,
I'll tulips are mown by the grass keeper
and yet thier thieft ferry can not die with the wind
or the splatter of the pythons rain.
time is not a meaning
It is bain.
says Who?!
