The birds are a clear sock of witnesses who also die. Along with the dry morsels of shortbread, the year neatly finishes a rudimentary ricochet of the book. Fluttering my vision to beat out a tongue of suicided cheese I can, vomiting diets, no longer endure. I offer a raped field clapping condolences to several male witnesses suffering from various species of children's-verse-weight-loss.
My head differs. Even underwater parts of my head feel dry, as if purporting to summarize air, I had suffered bravery in an apology-center from a comprehension test.
The children are buried alive under a brutally tubed soil of "not-being-touched." Fall is here, even tho my armpits sweat & hobos with mozzarella in their beards are crossing their legs in a wedge of sun. A face that wasn't in it suddenly seemed real, like lipcreases sliding down the small of kneaded weather into a slow, steady plain to hiss like the pillow of a father's body.
The sound of a faucet following swollen commands puts a finger to the seat of my lips wished deep inside everyone. In moments of durable war-like intimacy, the head itches like a straitjacket, allowing the equipment of a bedroom to be impotently cultivated like a riding bit of deep-tickles archived for the purposes of later listening to life catching on.