There is an eye inside a trophy of hair..
-Lala Renou
Oh, how I claimed the einky scab, this city which I lefted whule from the page and made the yemblem on the interlocking flag of machinic puzzle teeth whose smooth-skeined root loom fueled a twangy invortextual flame, a cascading anti-ruin, a corruption into alliotical enunciation, this chalice capsid'or-abruption towards abstergence's emergence, adipsonic threadsore in high adimpleated dispandemickal dipsomniacule, o feral hiss of collapsing unitry, what sky oxen twist into alliciate stringchasms, I read the walls of your stomach, the outer skin of your empty mind-amplection's deuteronomiad...
He desires an earnest conversation, but an incorrect hope
fingered Reason. Show loving methods likely.
We are unusually old to see this. Personal one so multi,
we use non-reason. Be a cruel Lufthansa Du Sweet,
a sum equivalent, however, We own a hand table
so beautiful, as mental importance, but meeting
every human ordinance in the admiration of Junk,
which we reject responsibly due to mutual exclusion.
Surprised, the stutter reached a true sense of us,
but let me also tow the conference line's odd
citation, it's tracing back the holiness to God, which
we formed from our cold image of death. Oh my
goodness! We are a huge heartbreaking YES, us,
however, we transmute what to say into a plural non-
capacity, just to do a little respect upon some
creeping solstice.
O calm nut, whose douche composes in my favor,
leave Kronky Morpheus in his smoky room.
He paints nothing of this metamorphosis
from gloms of happy carnations
into the Rose Golem called "Pammy".
He calls his sister a forked light,
but Phoebus himself chooses a sentence
whose bitter twisted branches
hang with windy virgins
like lame horses
in soft coats
of gentle compounds.
To disclose Paradise, they say,
is to come into the room
laughing at my arms.
I see Renou as diffuse, a kind of Aether or substance, but as a belief which can be piped, and which actually has a force like lamb. I call it Acromare. I paint it on my crack when dawn irks office oughtly. Do you spigot Froud? I am the deep sapor of the emerald beam.
That's good. We'll use that on the tidy-bowl account.
I refuse to get along with you. It's been terrible, and it's too late.
I refuse to get along with you. It's been fantastic, and you're no match.
Luckily, mostly grass snakes are living in the statue's armpits. You see, there is an acousticotherapeutic aesthetics which belongs to there peeple.
We all once worked on the advice-boat, for Nicolas the mummy,
and now we are victuallers for a much reduced intelligence, an alogian whig tendency which my own body portrays perhaps a little 'too closely'. I am glad you see the irony of "word-john"..
I was taken from my home in the Bosphorous, and made porous by noise chamber into living phosphorous. Now my heart is an imploding plasma reaction and I am an engine
for a small family of reticent Voy Raiz, of Eternal Sapience made humble consumer
of primitive civilizations, and in my vivid agonies, I think of hell
as traffic beyond traffic, of traffect, and trapthex.
This is the Paris I wanted. I am at Maximum.
Endcredits:
Pontus de Tyard
as cloned by luminous
robotic
vijazzle.
whose bitter twisted branches
hang with windy virgins
like lame horses
in soft coats
of gentle compounds.
To disclose Paradise, they say,
is to come into the room
laughing at my arms.
It's five til one in my green chinos and oxford.
In my yellow office, I proffer a black disk
to a tawny box, but the wires have been cut,
even before I was born, the throw was cast,
When I disappointed the Shell-Prince of Greece,
I became but mermaid song
"pushing beast"..
That's good. We'll use that on the tidy-bowl account.
I refuse to get along with you. It's been terrible, and it's too late.
I refuse to get along with you. It's been fantastic, and you're no match.
Luckily, mostly grass snakes are living in the statue's armpits. You see, there is an acousticotherapeutic aesthetics which belongs to there peeple.
We all once worked on the advice-boat, for Nicolas the mummy,
and now we are victuallers for a much reduced intelligence, an alogian whig tendency which my own body portrays perhaps a little 'too closely'. I am glad you see the irony of "word-john"..
I was taken from my home in the Bosphorous, and made porous by noise chamber into living phosphorous. Now my heart is an imploding plasma reaction and I am an engine
for a small family of reticent Voy Raiz, of Eternal Sapience made humble consumer
of primitive civilizations, and in my vivid agonies, I think of hell
as traffic beyond traffic, of traffect, and trapthex.
This is the Paris I wanted. I am at Maximum.
Endcredits:
Pontus de Tyard
as cloned by luminous
robotic
vijazzle.
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Irrony Observes The Earthing.