Saturday, November 11, 2017

Believe it or Not Even

So Rare the definite blue, see the sky. When words let down, a sheen of sunlight named lightly, in person. Powers are being and able is a degree. A verb roughly goes, it is morning. Cold tho the wind relaxes means a population. Neutron remain factual nonsense or timeless, whatever prime. No language at this time, only time, more time, then none one at all.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Shake Your Money Maker

Angels are like fuck off, oh my god. Weak sanctity blurts oh, the trials. We fly by natural right, thinking big time. The marble of awful correct crows reminds testimony, like Apple Off a tree forever, and forever ever. Dave Foofighter,, more public nothing, makes nice midnight and John Ashbery is still poet forever. Still as a dead poet, thanks for nothingness. Angels are like oh so wait.

Hi, I Am Simon and Garfunkel

America the once grew cloven as young and thrift were documents. The piece of thinking always sags but towers are an idea. And when the wake starts, portion control and how the moment spreads magazines of instant after effects. The road goes family till the risk of something, glorious for a taste of sport. John Ashbery told no one of this plain. We must read the radio. The radio, the radio, my dead mother. Father’s Benny Goodman had a drummer for a map.

John Ashbery Was Wrong For America

Even Tho You Know What You Know

You cannot satisfy praise. He wasn’t even taller than the moon. He wasn’t a real verb. His number was not proven. He talked only to wood, stones were leaning gone. Actually too many words were written not found. When he dies, the people think he may not die. But if going is representative, then Language cannot be depended on to sentence or oracle or touch a thumb to nose as was once the wont.  Praise tells praise to make praise, but praise is a word like a corral with possible horses. Horses are impossible!