HAY-BRIGHT
Then please regale us with the ponsmut to all this living code. Hale in burk lest the shirt lee. Caressing little dime bags on the bureau by the drawer of your desk. Long mythological desk you have in order to keep your life in check. Left in Alabama. What will you do now, deskless, out here? ¶ Control from P for place-names, but not in the recounter’s dreams. Left to the loss-fund of leavers whose bottom lines are their smack-sums in deference, not to be confused with our Main Points, which are multitudinous. For one, Leavey Brank 690-KJ2N0 wants to form a loving relationship with somebody at some point in his life and until then to make his career work, what little of one he really has, and then also to find some spirituality or sense of belonging in the very vast universe. What happens when I-Chinko drops his binder on the wet-top saber-tooth-tiger-escrow undulant spurs, where Saturn wanes on a gibbus moon and Clack For Death-Tow doesn’t seem to spatter any bleeding desires on his heart’s canvas, or look any farther into the diving of the crystal ball for which he’s known. Save it. ¶ What’s more is not too long ago we were all bent in blights, saving throws. Away from the windows hoping not to catch any Danger at their heights. Tempting Leavey Jank 4892-JS5N0 with a little mistle-toe prank he’s going to be sorry he fell for when it turns out the partner he thinks he is kissing is really a monster in human clothes. The long dark exegesis to the night-oft in blank heat despises itself its own death throes. Can’t a call to arms then make it better?, asks the large heap. No, says the professor confessor. No, and as a matter of fact our time is up for today. So then slant. Rhomboid lefty sect lowers us into the vine from which grapes grow. I don’t know what there’s to say, but otherwise so-glow nainaeves to globulate the empire of words. Across from them nothing stakes the light show. ¶ And, as if to make matters worse, there are grass stains on the pleated skirt of Leavey Fruel-Donnat 9418-JP0G0, whose scant closeness to the brim of flies makes her want to escalate. Scanter, even so. Along the line of time to the next place-name. To create a gibbous moon of snow out in the yards of frozen homes. Lie like an angel and make rhymes in her head and glow. ¶ Can’t for all of us determine meaning. What’s then the sacrifice of getting over yourself to time? Of head-remission creeping up in dank droves showing heavily. Clasp onto the heel of the heart, if you can—know. Dray lever spreed truce. Tank ober tried twine and bleak vay. For inn less log and driver. ¶ But yes so, there was one more thing. I forgot to mention at the outset, which I definitely should have. Not all of our sources are correct, so to speak. Some are greet-pain. Some are freak-zone. The freak-zone we splay ourselves under the philosophies of and waver beneath. Become prostrate loyalists to a time table determined by acid heads and light shows, light shows, light shows inside our minds’ eyes, the great great flow of precordial endrospherical venom bree. Paralytical cavern bats afolded in the dark, scared to flight at the sunlight emulation of the flashlight’s beam cone. Can’t afford to underestimate what it is we’re doing here, apparently. Only on the nights we save does the harbinger like to come and play us for a fool. Only on the nights we save does the song really strike at all and does anything make. Toward us fleeting greet-pain freak-zones. Tried and true-blue. ¶ Then orf in dweetz palazia stanis overdrone offinda wayaback moniscraze. Can it slow balloon. Back home they’d call you a weak fry, and you know. But here you are whatever you’d like to be, honest-honest. Don’t give into that dumb vein. Pull up yourself by your string, kite. Ray in deferring to the lone. Cap us luster and a crew of heavens over growth acumen glone. Carrying forth forks ‘eavensward off a trip of daisy-run foreverpast waydone windbreak. Never repenting wretch’s glow. Also a tool for God to voice himself, maybe. Two of us in a long chair pretending one is three. I know, sometimes, I know. I don’t. That’s maybe kind of the point, see. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. We are never alone. See, that angel eye watching spiritually over your body ‘s astral projection’s projection’s projection sees. It really does. All of you. At all times. In heavenslight through dark beams. In across-sensation numbing agents of the sight and then forever the feeling engrained but kept fortunate. Bolsom bertwain jipsum salamandrom overboon elate. Heave untoward betyousnapped ohbutwait. There is a solemn poem, here, on the crave. Leaving us all untoned, all bearing giftless spiritual presents and mirth for the salvation of souls. Perhaps, through work and meditation, on the self in grimus wight. Perhaps, in treaty with the blond hole in sun where to wear up graven an image forms in the third eye or your analogue for same and then for all of us nothing takes, but the rake is run. How do you explain that? ¶ TZ for P for the place-names. And you trying to find a reason or R H Y M E behind the words, there, for ever a flow taken over you want to control itself on its own terms wants you to let go that is life. I know, I don’t know, all the time. But love and for passing stints home is friends of pretty lights and taking. Gif of a Sunday post abuser going hay-bright. What do you say to that? Nothing. Tan as a whole milky diamude rudding bruntly. Coming to rest on the pillow of night and then not very easily falling asleep.