Skip to main content

A Prom is a Wicked Entropy

The most necessary grows legs and improves to human interaction. It works wings into conversation without allowing what. What grows fangs and dips fuel from tasty earth. We are ready to sleep.

Sleep causes antic rapture full of waves from Robert Mitchum and/or Audrey Hepburn. Waiting for farms and wind and tall trees while pop psychology wraps ferment. A slope of information rises above the baseline information of what we have done. Someone is 19 years old, and told to be 19.

Lax streets inquire regiment, with minty freshness. And it could resolve for folks that, circumscribed and around the neighbourhood, someone did something.

Something is so much, inclusive and unbending. We could tread on nominal traits and factoids, as a bluster massacre occurs. People die and aren't finished. People kill and are not finished. This is an expression of solemn doubt. What is the franchise?

Tears seep savour, place names grow into world. Who are the what?

A poem is a cage for registry, language in a tunnel toward a light that gabbles with words. Why do tunnels gabble with words? Plopping process exceeds, pronouns explain direction.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A List of Words

It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Left of Intention

Blistered arrangement in Obama's plant. That plant is excised with cultured cells looking for the sun. Obama brands name in this stampede, and we leak alert. A new orange smokes upon the evening landscape, parlance for yesterday, then blue over the gushing land today. Stay happy with Obama, or paralax, or the motion across the kitchen floor, of something. Something secret leaves the hives. Something secret seeks the plant. The plant is poised like anything. Tussle continues, with new verbs vectoring the continuation. Obama bravely last the night, sweatshop slogan. Our President, haply, but effort contorts all known regions of meaning. The South, for instance, the West, the North and its East, and so on, dilations. There was a lake above. A blue and now it is shining morning lake. It was above, like the cat, or even more, when we are attuned. Obama battles with all words, Even as the proposition institutes some collision hardly to be compelled. All this exceeds ramifications. Our Pr...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Citizen Would Leave

  Across lean tar pits of localised conveyance, news from sadly nowhere and other quackery. The entire rich crunch vibrates to the center, where stopping begins. Look where the adjectives go. The people as multiplied assumption and ducking away show causation by tumbleweed drift. Moral code exists as prosecution, pronounced as caring. Nuclear rocks decompose, discompose. Stictures from the one god populates the beaten numbers between us. We can all die with advantage to hear the startling judgment. The bonfire of Babylon made happiness exist. We cannot squeeze more love from this rock. Donald’s day has spoken, mellifluous tar.
Post a Comment
Read more