What strange baths await?
Odd naps, strange baths, a walk into the parlour. The harlots with honey baked arm pits submit the goodness on every meal. We feel our way across the grinding wheel.
Well what shall we rise above? Pits and pieces of the sense that leases it's space in the ever shimmering head? The shrouds shall send the near after, the shrouds will hobble into town. The roads will close the focus the pose, the script that in the chemical sky abounds.
The wow'd of Turin, the yellow rose of midget pussy, the underground science.
A long flowing grimace on the face of my space, rhyming my time in the mind with mine. Eleven stunted heavens, trying to fulfil souls prayers but failing like a skateboard coming off the railing. Flowery petals drifting down from the sky, burning your skin when contact begins. The dried up well of mental health, undercutting you with stealth, fades with the pain of the stain they leave behind.
Nasty little moments behind it all. Crazy bastards bass thumping drive-bys. Soda from the heavens. A meagre night's stand. Parades of prude perverts, calling for the burning of all skin. These fevers are levers, are lost forever, are tossed forever. These suns have come undone the world has moved on, rose dying on the lawn. Poetic foreplay, mystical sponge bath among us. The marching foreskins, what sin grows thin, what beer makes us queer. Tempting tummy town, eating right through the rain.
A supporting cast that doesn't last, with minds all looping in the past. Some special friends that never end and take your brain around the bend. A pasty little rat-faced sputem shootem. Wrong this early lithium by peeing in a jar. I, of course, am never twelve.
Strange bath number two: The freon in my jeans means I'm cold with love
1. Here we are. 2. Here is where we will be.
Hugs on the river. Men with the free beer and squinty lies. The police drool and do the drive-by, a new and popular dance. The same thing is burning me, and so sweet that I cannot be. The phones will pull me through this, the cuts ups will paste and glue this.
1. This is you. 2. This is Them.
Bologna as an exotic sea mammal is never a sound idea. Leaving the amoeba alone is recommended for first timers. Winsome, furry, feral fury. Oozing. Jumping in before growing eyes that see. A thick line of drool dried to a cheek marks a pillow used for napping. Intense orgasmic feelings of helpfulness. Righteous religions suck in the pigeons. This game this game, The stuff I play. The webs on the roads that catch gas and channel it back to the gas station to be re-sold to you. A cafe somewhere in the sweaty lands, bring me cold fish flanked with raw carrots. A couple drinks, one a water with lime, the other a egg yolk and cherry pepsi soda. I hang out here in my faded underwear, the breeze tickles me, through holes in my shorts. I love this vacation, I have rented my house from the powers that be for three whole evenings. The dried up pillow used for bastards. Submit the goodness with lime. tempting tummy furry, rightous souls in the chemical sky. Shunted heavens dance, prude perverts and cherry soda.
1. There we go. 2. There we are.
Contact lens casts in case you break'em. Unrolling a page of turtle paper and writing with june bug legs, the world has moved on. All of the ancient legends concerning pressed ham have turned out to be mystery meat. A wise man once said nothing. Special specialities are our special today. Into moon craters with those masturbators and make it into cream cheese. Lights twinkle in your eyes when I tickle twixt your thighs. I the beam, I'm steamy, parts are creamy, joy of my candy floats among ye. Tell my tattoos "I love you", sing me a biscuit. Gore Real a warfare. monkeys hung in trees like fuzzy leaves. A blank tarot deck says it all. Sips of the rich, the cabbage house that serves rare dips. Pickles of warning, porn is all glowing, sweat and swear it's our air, it's our everywhere.
1. This ain't you 2. This was You
Can't breathe without caffeine, lungs fill with sodium and snot, chunks of funk all green and hot. Baking like a forgotten thanksgiving turkey till black of bubbling out of me a strangle cough, a foam that bleeds. Now my clothes will break apart unless I continue using Chaneylittle's Detergent. Now my car will die unless I buy more of the oil by BushCo industries, and they take more and more of me. Hugs on this vacation, paste and Oozing religions. In my shorts from the heavens. Orgasmic feelings of this game. Never a sound that I cannot be. The fevers undercutting you.