they, they, they, they, were taken to the fortieth evacuation, up a long spout, down a rung, and now parted, the clap hands lay juggled before our low eyes, a single slash along an abdomen of paper is the same crying out into a bucket of old bolts, he could have handled a lingering chilled words and drapery, now fossils are built up to use holy vow cups, I've never see a wall so high or a birds throat so thick, part wings and begin to climb over a grand pile of sick, a brilliant carousel of balled up twine, notice how Our Uncle could drink without looking.
do not wash with the blood of princes, or some waylaid fixture of glass upon paper, can it say that now without parting, can it focus a limp into strides, can a promise of rain make is so, or do we fuck around with kitchen knobs, night vampires in amongst the tide and watchmaker goes to sleep like anyone else.
not so brilliantly, not so vagueless, not so Devil's Ring, in a vague street that calls out of a civil war ode.
sweet girl don't level igloos endlessly, don't tirade prophets in a gang-less line, know something sweeter with a tune like the humming and pitching of oars.
***part of something larger I'm working on.
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