Saturday, March 17, 2012

Pastoral #3.14

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.

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