I eat. Hide, no more. There is a tide. A tide. Hide me. There is nothing within the horse's head. Yellow is the morning. The fingernails lick the evening. My nostrils surrender. The hands of weary ones are not weary. the umbrella that flies away, is not astray. The man who holds nothing yet carries everything is the window to the intravenous meddling of horoscopic leaves. Horoscopic leaves and winter so evil. So vile and so malignant. Holding me in the pain of knowing, knowing that the buses roar for my throat. My throat, yes my throat, Mr. Hickery Dickery Talk to me, walk with me. Hold me. Squeeze me. Kiss me. Digest me.
Ice cubes of magnificent design are so persistent, so malign. However many moreover makeup makeshift mavericks there might be floating in the holstering oyster bays, I await your reply. You have to pay close attention to the sheep. You have to observe astutely the hogs. The hogs with bones crackling in my shoulders. My shoulders ache at the thought of you. She, with her toes, explodes into foes. A biscuit, a stare most afraid, the possibility that the snow-globe bearing you shall shatter under the hammer. Mostly though, what remains is the inevitability. the inevitability of the dissolving slug slime.
Shimmy, but don't lock me in. The cell is too topic and enveloped in tropic frog licks. I am me but in the land of you I am you, smiling and saying "I'm worse than you. I need your help. Oh, help me! Save me, sire!".
There once was a man. He died. Never had he seen an airplane. They were far after his time. His clock hangs itself in the broom closet of the antique shop. Then, the rainbows shatter through every last window
all was well.
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