to the sun

 and the heavens to the stars and they flew back to me and the ground and the grave and they laid their heads on me and I wept for them and the grave and my friends and the bear I couldn't mourn him I needed him he was still alive but too weak to feed himself and he was not well enough to do any tricks so I took him back to the tree stump and fed him from my finger which was of course not good enough I need to feed my friends and even the cats need to be fed and these animals don't know any tricks so I cried again and then I grew very weak then they offered to help, I've always known they are smarter then me but I felt their hands around my shoulders my bear was gone and I can't understand why he would do such a thing for me. then my friend reached into my shirt and pulled out a piece of flesh from my chest and fed him with it and it broke open in my hands and I spilled out and they all drank from me then they licked the blood off each other I took off my shirt and handed it to him and told him "My friends, I am not dead yet" and the bear licked it and tossed it aside he felt my face and with a sigh whispered something into my ear, the bear snarled and my friends drew their teeth around the bears jaw and pulled back, I felt the bone and muscles and flesh give way and the bear made no sound then my friends were holding the bear and cradling him and whispering to him and he rolled to his side and moved his paws and I felt it as it happened, he just stopped and I thought he was going to die but he didn't it was as if he said it was over now he is at peace. he grabbed a piece of dried meat from my pocket and ate it then the bears' eyes opened and he started to purr then my friends threw him up on the shoulders of my friend and stood close beside him and I was free of the bear that had trapped

buds of rust

would clue flux's elangland

over drooping basset ears

hound bassinet

homoheteromusisactiniae

flute buboe rotundas

are hacked by simultaneous

strings of interlinking

crab-monkey things

pretending value pumped

chimney-sweeps

benning a wheckoning of 

living coral helmets

two take over and control

the jestering catatoniacs

sample of some homonyms meaning lines

recapitulation phages adjust

to this but

there in the simple

chary long hair serpentine

cushion sofa literature

a cushion essay poem was shaped

for draping long hair for diamond-

boned skeleton wearing

literary cushions of shaped

poems stuffed with long hair

long haired cushion-poem skeletons

stuff a larger shaped cushion of simple

serpentine canyon cushion scenes

you can imagine being a furious

undead diamond skeleton

wearing a padded magical yeti suit

of infinitely complex blinking

chittering embroidery

a living embroidery of display

whose signals signal a life of their own

as signals racing through the visual threads

of the hair display vectors

of the shaped sofa yeti display cushions

which have built a 

tidal poem in the canyon

if only it were as simple

as being nude alone and feathered

and crawling through the serpentine

embroidered pillow which fills

the canyon's serpentine snaking literature

of architectonic formalisms

if only our hominin bright eck kaleo

mist serpentine would suit

the etched solar skeleton

to intestate fortune of interiors

spilt embroidery to their gilt

blazing inconfidence our

sectic or secret motive purvey

made concrete mad

the nude kaleo eck it crawls

through the red pillow of dawn

and out onto the canyon table

to view the cushion gears

and their spewing and churning

of the diamond threads

chittering vectors

how is a gape of symbols

fangoring canyon literature

mists conceal

these yeti snake cushion poems

giving birth

to feathered tongues

brutfith

drum fey ogli mortho

incooglianthi medea lex cirthumcuy

piedoclompth shootchure

handencleverzhetzith

zenith phoenix icka rusing

bloodglider batemblem

drumhead fish cluster mutterings

dormanadamdeva

drooglogog und goose

drum fey ogli mortho

inthroot meankhli

cuydeva dunthurlote

Well I just need to let myself fall down (ai writing dump)

The SOng CLub by Ministry app never mentioned Zoroaster Crab Cherub I tried to drink it away I tried to put one in the air I tried to dance it away I tried to change it with my hair And know that I can make a new head Like I can a new pair of arms Like I can a new head Like I can a new pair of arms Like I can a new head drones assemble me into a zoroaster crab cherub with peacock antenna rings I ran my credit card bill up Thought a new dress would make it better I tried to work it away But that just made me even sadder Dr. Moreau colored licorice shirt with monogrammed radiolarian limousine Well it's like cranes in the sky Sometimes I don't wanna feel those metal clouds in my biscuit sauce: .. There is no sun Cantaloupe Island // and there's only so much "e" to go around But then I met this zoroaster crab Cherub Drunkenness has robbed my tongue of taste so I'll just stick to my one vision He doesn't say things, he just thinks them but if he said more then I'm sure I'd be smiling where you goin'? Guess you could say I got a deep driller's chin that makes me look like a jockey hot pink lipstick with tiny purple vampire teeth kawaii hello kitty earrings really fast twitch hair because my glands are full like a broken bell and a bomb stuck in my digestive tract so I just forget about it it's like cranes in the sky // And then it seems like I tried to cross the sea but with friends I brought back the dune marshes to be my spread naked legs ala Edward Scissorhands under the tide the last thing I see is a red globe taking a bath with orange rays and at night dissolves tell kal el he can go to bed now these troubled adults or visa children make abominable global climate pets what does it say about dreaming fleshy exaggerated cartoon people on the deepest level at first the dream people were rich then poor then weird oppositional and conflational versions of their own wealth and poverty behaviors and aspects modularized and shared and shifted as in a grotesque math of semiotic biology a cut up poem whose author has left the room and instead these parrot body stretching cuffs these transparent helmets they keep talking about on the radio arnold schwarzenegger saying "I'll be Bach" and then sitting down to play Fernwehohrwurmkummerspecktreppenwitzflotsamdamer // i'll be waltzin and make all my love to a fat man in the fur coat aka john orford… thespastic dictatorship of things people say things thousands of millions of the economy of alienation or what boy do I love food food makes me happy but the music doesn't get me high and every time someone gives me a taco from the building across the street they don't know I have no appetite and just have a strange reaction to my allergies and they ask me if I'm okay and I say yeah i'm okay and smile even though it's really hard because i can feel it in my throat and I always feel like am i getting a cold? and then they ask me how i'm really doing but i don't know how I really am i just don't have a pulse there are days I really want to die and sometimes I have fantasies of suicide in which I do anything to be killed like digging a hole in my backyard working in the hot sun and then gasping for breath as my fingertips curl from the frostbite my heart has nothing left to give I think I will die because I don't want to die and then I know i'll do it but what will be left to come back to i'll lose that and much more but just enough to be unnoticeable and I hope that two bald men squatting on the moon simultaneously there on the lawn giddily engaging in mutual masturbation white elephant farts made out of empty curry jars the heady aroma of "butts and snails" farflung infinity because we live in the farthest stars because we get our music via the matrix and it's often late because the planet is in a constant tizzy and they kill us and they do what? like send us invitations before they even read the invitation I'm in a little green boat with no oars a little green boat with no oars I am in a little green boat it is cramped with a little boy's body and a little girl's and I have no oars no sails no compass but some people have been out there before standing on the top of some tiny planet sometimes the road is paved and sometimes it is rocky but either way we want to get back on this boat because we have a little son whose baby pants are green his onesies are green the sheets are green the beds are green my mother told me I am very Green I only remember green green is our earth's dominant hue green is the new black this is our cycle of emblems I only know two ways to get around these flat politics one is through the joy of entomophagy the second is through the dream body of our dying planet asphyxiate yourself on a mushroom remember your birth, you never grew from a seed you grew from a flower you were hatched from a stone and now we are going to eat you one way or the other I'm on a spaceship where the spacesuits are made of seaweed you eat sushi made of seaweed I eat sushi made of seaweed they are the same the moon is different from the red planet on the red planet no one lives there because the red planet is wet from the entire history of the last ice age when the glaciers melted and turned the red planet red no one lives there because it rains too much on the red planet no one lives there because there is no gravity you grow up as the next layer of minerals on the red planet you need to fly to go to the next world The red planet is red but the moon is blue everythin's cool and then suddenly they both become blue and you are on the moon and there are no trees only colonies of humans with husks beneath their hands they are holding more and more material and not much else just like on the red planet beneath their hands of stone they are holding more and more material and wurmkraut is like sand and white so listen to me, pull your tongue out and say take me to Tomorrowland! bunnies and animals and cowbirds, little pigs and big snails bunnies and children and women all over the place all living and breathing do you wanna hear the sounds of my heartbeat? what part of me can you reach? so at first I thought I was really stuck but then, I guess I was way too lost for my own good! YUPHATE! EH? enjoy your lice eggs: bunnies and children and women all over the place all living and breathing cooperate: baby bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men child bunnies, horses and men little piglets, little goats and cows little children, little goats and cows I can't breathe because you kill me Little bugs come out, can't breathe, will you die for me? Will you die for me? Will you die for me? Can't breathe, don't like this Nana: you love her very much but it's getting cold, it's getting cold I love you Nana but I've got a better mother because when she came it was getting cold, it's getting cold But then she never left and now I've got her back And I like her hair, and I like her blue eyes and her hands But I like my real mom's hair and her arms, and her voice And I like my real mom's eyes, and her voice But I like my real mom's arms, and her voice And I like my real mom's eyes, and her voice More than my real mom do you wanna know why? Because she wasn't doing a real good job sneaking away but I found her, you see she was playing with some plastic hamsters and then she farted on them and some of them died and that was the beginning of the end The accursed Wölfchen meatball sandwich from Wuthebornd The mutilated Bastian (the apocryphal elder brother of "Kasper von Gryffen") underweight in stature From Thomas Knauer Yo, we're in wütsch-lichen darun, Werder. Do you have any cornmeal? Ars moriendi est. Man diehöre in unbedachten Nächten mit gemalten Augen zu reiten. Man träumt von Sinnlosen. Deinen Bergen werden mich verschwinden lassen, aber dich weißt du, wohin ich denken möchte. Zu groß sein will ich, aber zu klein, ohne viel viel. Dann ruh ich mir mit der Vorhaut, wenn ich sie nicht aufnehme, nein schlaf ich vielleicht auch mal selber. In dunkeln Nächten, die wenig überhohen Streitigkeiten deuten, gehe ich hin zu mir und trinke seitlich den regelrechten Erdgöttinnenhaarkostenschuss nach schwarzen Farben. Du schöst mir bei der Arbeit kalt-weißen neulich im Hafen. Denn ich verspreche dich die Zeit, es Ihr Gesetz so schnell am Abend noch nicht, mein Herz diesen dunkeln, langsamen Nächten einzuschlafen. Du kannst das nur als seine Lieblingszeile im "Tante" sehen. Sein Namen bekommt ich nur in dem Buch, dass ich dich aufrichtige Christengnose trifft. Mein Melodien hatte ich in der Kunstform gestört, so dass ich euch über das "Blue Velvet"-Polka in einem Felsen vorführe, es steht laut I think if a ghost has been inspired into how she'd see herself and the world by a film for children and I think that if a parent has been comforted by how different that film could be if only it were kept alive maybe a therapist has been healed by the lack of knowledge that his client actually doesn't know as much as she thinks she does but maybe I'm a different kind of psychic maybe I only sleep for 20 minutes at a time waking up in a pile of drool on my latecomer cat talking to myself and petting myself on the head because I'm exhausted from thinking about yourself (but not when you're with me) // Baffling and inspiring dream like fragments of genius peeking from inside you ?I'll start with a bell "Beez", I need to know where you are I had to marry a king that's a trick that honey man swindles you if you get to the end of a bowl and no sweet substance is left in the bottom I just assume they won't come back for seconds I'll start with a new boat and its big brother with magma for fuel the green boy drove his pool frog to get fuel it was the pink brother that steered him back and we found that all of them went inside the huge whale yeah, I had to have this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals which stand among dust and spiderwebs on the wall of a whimsical old woman with a face you cannot see but can hear her cluck and chew as she talks into a phone about her bank account and suddenly has no money without blinking an eye and then she puts her hand into the pocket of her pumpkin pants and pulls out a smooth chocolate candy with a green leaf in the center. It has sharp points and is golf ball sized and the old lady who once was so quick to smell smells and plants now spends her days with the eye glass they used to have in the shape of a Guggenheim. Have you ever watched this woman? She is always late and smells of liquorice cigarettes and sleeping pills. Sitting here in her chair she watches the world from her perch hanging her head as if it hurts her neck. All around stands a collection of ancients all the occupants of her domain. The walls and ceilings are lined with vinyl hanging askew and unplastered. Is this where the houses used to be? All filled with occupants too sick or dead to move? Why doesn't she even clean the toilet? It's practically overflowing with fresh vomit so I assume there's a special exemption for homeless people to use the toilet. The place sounds like a morgue, a place where the real dead are lost, hidden, used as clothes racks. The earth begins to quake with her hands biting the phone. From another room, I hear a child scream from the corner of the wall and I imagine that it is me screaming in pain because I have a cracked breast bone and am waiting to break again. Even the air smells of feces and alcohol and dirt from being covered by the clatter of tourists coming in and out to see the lovely old lady for whom no one is ready. Why is this place so awful? If I could I this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals peggy guggenheim ate my shirt at a party where she hadn't paid the entrance fee on her phone call, she didn't pay attention to me when I called her to our table because she was talking on the phone to her father in Greece. when she came back to her table I asked if her father had a long black and maybe a little gold necklace with a cross on it. no, Peggy said and then she gave me a kiss. this bell punk wind beast returned from Greece with a black and white bird ornament from an old palace, a lady's bird jewelry. you can take a photo but it doesn't come close to the real thing. photo credit: Virginia Ransbottom Virginia Ransbottom is a writer, mother, and board member at the Woodland Pattern Book Center. Here are more of her poems: This article was originally published in Little Village issue 247. 226 SHARES Facebook Twitter - - - advertisement - - - Posted by Matt Comer Matt Comer is a staff writer for QNotes. He previously served as editor from October 2007 through August 2015. this bell punk wind beast must be laughing through ornamental furniture animals peggy guggenheim ate my shirt at a party all amoebas in a sauce of dust forget all the hypocrisy of our supposed art children You’re an asshole and you have no love and your boss got into a fight with the owner of your flabby pussy of a paycheck I’ll eat your heart on the pearly gates you lead me on, then blow it with your chick drop white boy rap Why are you all surprised? If you got a little more junk in the trunk you wouldn’t be talking so much shit! Ever wondered why I never date girls? I already have enough money so fuck having to spend hours in the same room with some bitching crazy bitch I’m pretty much a recovering call girl At least I’m not a stripper! Money brings pain and women are for sale! Well that’s it, I’m done! Diane, you ain’t a bad lay! (Claire: !!!!!!!) Hey, The last line was definitely all in my head. I may not have written it but it sure as shit does come from somewhere. It’s not really a song and not really a verse. I kind of just tried to go over my head and try to make it as crazy as I could. “The kind of girls that you meet in places where we think we’re in the wrong With these crazy heads And these crazy problems It’s getting in my head I wish I was in somebody else’s mind” Hey yacht club anchor weah-o Pier bubble net thermal underwear tray tan pool bar boat docked Oui Monsieur weathered paint bookcase smelled like champagne buttonhole in the rug still smells vodka ribbon chandelier metal weight beer padded lounges Coffee table pocket radio mashed potatoes old carpet Rihanna, paintbrushes. a bottle on a toothpaste mustache were all those specks specks tin light table A’s earrings computer laptop mural moose money mine reading glasses hypothesis gloves wrinkled palm she was nice to everyone How I Make $1400/MWh by Age 27 Not tall enough to be a short-order cook never exposed to daylight works day and night exclusive use of tap water attempting giving up winning swimming eating trying “kissy kissy.” Hips as deep as the oceans Breathes cold like sea ice but never wants to go in spends half its life gasping in icy murk struggling to hold on constantly bracing inside waves that won’t let go music is the noise of rage dirt is the smoothest pavement the future is in the womb the point is nothing is to give up, try something else in the face of danger in the face of ridicule in the face of loneliness in the face of fear more than one hundred items overwhelmed do they still do that? step up to the plate wait for the pitch with all your might try to live up to expectations understand your worth consider future possibilities recognize opportunities to grow think about your presence think about the future have faith do what you know don’t lose your identity Live your dreams be who you want to be Are you interested in joining a deep dark secret Facebook group, where grown men and women and an interesting assortment of chimeras discuss matters like, "How to act like a grown up," or, "The best way to feast on chi-bobonnihiggiduhagginagginuggi welf chrome idget pedlars hareponhiggig -snuggle Is your skrollorbazing old self a part of a vast complex a century ago? You should probably take a pill or go to a head doctor. So it is with great respect that you read this: straight from the interview, shall we say, with Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court George Bălăceanu:Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court George Bălăceanu has been famous throughout the ages in Romania for his politicized speeches. In Romania, everyone knows his secret. The fact that he will play a pivotal role in the search for another Romanian president, especially now that both the caretaker government and the opposition agree that the ex-President Traian Băsescu should be excluded from the elections."Tribunism, just like fascism, derives from within our history. Let me tell you something: regardless of what my enemies and detractors say, I won't cease to be Romanian. Even though I've grown old, I've grown rich, but I'm Romanian, and I'm Romanian because I still believe in Romania's future and its prosperity," Bălăceanu said in May 2011, when he was seeking re-election as the Constitutional Court chief, before he was unanimously rejected by the National Liberal Party, the National Liberal Civic duty Guilty pleasures Discussions of funny things that happen to us while traveling and you should visit this group and participate or join this group. Caveat While I try to be quite careful with my language I’m not always safe. If it looks like I’m coming on too strong, please walk away. Or just stop reading. Here’s the story behind “Barlinnie Nuts.” As you can see, my notes read as follows. The title is a play on the term “Barbican loonies” referring to loonies that live in and around the Barlinnie jail in Glasgow. Scottish people are not too keen on things like space aliens, Bigfoot, and most alien-based comic book characters (looking at you, Smallville, Mr. Singh), but loonies are more palatable. Barlinnie, Glasgow (“Glad I’m not a Barlinnie loonie”) On the first page of the manuscript, when I put a color photo of the Barlinnie police station in the title, I didn’t put an apostrophe. But the title seemed off. So I added an apostrophe. Then I added a hyphen and a period, like a typical grown-up. And that was the problem. Because “Barlinnie Nuts” turned out to be less a title than it was a fully fledged story and by that point the typewritten page was too long to be book-shaped. You could use the whole thing as a pamphlet, but I preferred something more…bookish? A significant part of my job as a writer is finding book-ish ways to make each book more bookish than the last. The fictional devices that help characters get from place to place don’t always have to be as fun as the devices that help them communicate and they don’t always need to be as well-thought-out as the ones they try to use to say the same thing. This is a quality that comes from not trying to overthink things. You make the simplest and most efficient thing work as best as possible. In The Lost Gene, the barcode just worked better than anything else did. In “Barlinnie Nuts,” the title works because I mean it to. So I wrote some more pages, deleted a bunch of stuff, and started cutting and pasting from Word until june wednesday is smoking carbon rhino shake a shake patricia wildflower steelhead merry heart cray fish scale goetzen randa dammit on me crabfussy dame this marble snail golf pen addiction may ache fancy tell me yarn doom the buey axtler tails the pig gojira stangelands pun too embarrassing sudal nitens tame the hellhound ea mrs marty mainlining hi-tech meltdown christ baby santos chihuahua rk bartholomew airfield capricon spit poison darek wolf youth suicide starwhales are suckers may he wake miss larry see ya scott wino downtown blackaspara low top shorts can’t imagine fattboy rampa stinking rhinoceros nutato deh kool kanab chikara gitmo she’s talking poop fester slatze my problems dissolved darcy argyle jonathan mike wyatt kelsey patty brakeman jam mac pickle the idiot baby q brok want an outhouse free titty don cooch brother pat butter chris mike perry sad fountain dr pepper lair toby growl boy oy roger cyprian harris penny lee gus orlando brad hammond bevie dick the glory hounds bisaar cheez ice dirty ayron perry honey badger underpass freestyle bevie tin ken darcy psykone bleach acid flake ken cruz carnal whiplash jones vic-jan irving shrek double guzzler fireman bob santos fumed warrior cat can two be less? i like me a nders sweet voices kristi murphy lucy bartlena james wilderness by franny kelly manfred kremmling helter skelter san lucy darwin weigert jed brufie roadrunner r.s. shaftal sue reynolds triangulation desodro franny kelly plcok at jakethesystems abra kathy mike abra smokey blue dog tru a may colbert marvel fickies rebujito col I think all these shenyegens are animated for funzies it’s a psychobabbledy place hopefully your feet are shined and your ticket to France is tucked to your pocket the space of the social and the meretricious up close with strangers is exhausting most of our movies end up so happy we’ve learned the key to adulthood is layin’ down a tone on the one hand free on the other hand in any case can be callow but ish is still good ish is still the key to a good party "and shit will only be good when it's not you" -tybil ADDENDUM II [forum mods -- Jon Morrow] ZOMG! That's the whole thing.The O stringed like living hammered like whale bone bellies muybridge perches in impotent pen muybridge fuses and saves like a flip-flop speeding into new seasons fresh farm sprouts, colds fallen buds and stubbed toes piles of shooting stars, black shadows the deluge clouds bowing into the low-luminosity sky cine pebbles disappear into the sky but the tram pa and donkey return tram pa arrives as hungry ghost drew by the million second light panoramas that can’t be repeated, then vanish like stray dogs that never get taken home, take each other home photographic guts part of the great-circle-of-destiny jesus cluck cluck cluck no more tumblr no more tumblr photographic guts shining nixon pomp pomp pomp yesterday’s news photographic guts truth fakethrough photographic guts advertising ho-ho-hold my wine photos of president as iceman clodhopping and shitting the radio book it up like a naked children’s book author holding their penises on the wide-eyed corners of two characters from the same comic book man, cut my poem down to 10 words photographic guts photo-shop images smeared on a page an advertisement a fetish of fire photographic guts acrid smoke 1A photographic guts 1D photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts photographic guts Photographic gut pain: The author photographed the gut-shredded breasts of women while they walked around in the city. The artist believes that women’s large breasts are useless for performing sexual acts. —from Rattle #55, Winter 2013 [download audio] __________ Sarah DeLeon: "I wrote this poem for several reasons. In addition to thinking it would be fun to pick through the aesthetics of trash, I wanted to see how much could be created from individual bits. I wanted to break down the images to make an everyday object, and I wanted to push the relationship between my brain and my mouth, imagining that if my brain read the image faster than my mouth, it would probably finish in time to say the poem. Also, it felt like the right moment for this poem. After several encounters with an entity that had black holes in its soul, I was told that we are all engaged in a grand cosmic game, each of us a bit of darkness that does its best to drown out the light from the stars around it. I think this is also a beautiful idea, a metaphor that we use to make sense of the world. At the end of the day, we are all equal little cosmic soup. I see the little pieces as my veins, with the occasional blood spatter. So, that’s what the poem is about. It’s about being a young poet and doing what I can with the tools I have." (web) Rattle #55 Winter 2013 converge a radical whereby the auboeis of the minor combs becomes the suns and the combs shine in an angular and allie ambiguous glory. —R. S. Pritchard The Importance of Joan Kelly Henry S. Fuller November 1919 11o8 I i am an American author. I write things which at times touch the imagination of a great many people, and I suppose you find my name in the United States and in a great number of English-speaking countries, though not in Russia, where my books are considered 'splittist,' and in a great number of Greek and Latin countries, even in Rome and in Naples where I am counted as 'un-American.' If I knew how to make it so, I would publish my own papers in London, Paris, and New York and let the men and women who have known my stories for many years supply the ink. I would not bother them. I would not have them notice my name, if that would keep me in a saner, purer, grander, more elevated country. But I don't. I am not a political writer. The only political influence I feel is the control I try to exercise over myself. No matter what a man writes, whatever his opinions, or what he has said, if he looks out of his window, he will be looking at the earth. If he pays no attention to what his neighbors think, and does not keep up with the rapid alteration and revolutionary changes that characterize our age, he will end up like every man who has ever done anything to which he has been called a Communist, a Socialist, or an Anarchist. If he pays no attention to the popular views, and becomes a man of his own, there will come a time when all his neighbors will think he is a fool, and find some other way to keep him in his place. When I write, I don't ask myself what the public thinks. I don't care what the public thinks. What I do care about is the public that reads me. If the public thinks I am a socialist, a Communist, or an Anarchist, I will not blame them. If the public thinks I am a man, I will not blame them. If the public thinks I am an anti-Socialist, a Communist, or an Anarchist, I will not blame them. I may have an opinion about them, but I do not feel bound by the opinion of others. When I write, I keep myself as far away from common people as I can get. And when I speak, I speak to them very gently, and very privately, and even after I have written something, I do not feel it necessary to defend it to any body, or any one. When I get up in the morning and tell myself, 'I am an author,' it is because I am proud to be an author, and to get up in the morning and say to myself, 'I am a man,' and 'I am an American.' I am not a one-horse man, and I do not hold a pencil to say, "I am an American." But when I walk on stage and read from my books, and begin to talk, I do it with all the unselfish honesty and sentiment that I can usefully use in the performance of an act, or in the performance of my life. I am an author, and I think I am a writer. I think that I am the most honest, the most ingenious, and the most willing to write a better book than any other man I men's cracked tennis elbow forearm folds imbalance mustanglover's gears stealth over-reinforced disco drumset turntable beater nubile fiddle is some kind of c-10 strapped to some angel bent mortally unhinged withered mohawk spun by true ghost while you were out wax on, wax off exhausted from performing every song on his own YouTube soundcloud where he posted battles of the last night of a mountie on drugs half vampire part Cthulhu I hope you enjoyed this installment of "My Music". Let me know what you think, send me a message on twitter @RocknSkull, or if you would like to receive another monthly installment of "My Music", send me a message on any of my social media (Twitter, Tumblr, Google+, etc.) channels. Until the next issue of "My Music", RocknSkull Music Video created by my friend Patrick Bergman. Thanks for reading. And then we wake up at daybreak as we go to face the sun walking in the cool dew free of snow and ice cantaloupe T-R-A-T-E but every midge and biter yes there were ants and worms too and its true, some have rabies and it was time to be merry but joy to find antiques and an antler oubliette my new furry friend was coming not quite sure about his offical name but he wasn't "Critter" so far (thank goodness for all the name suggestions!) it was time to just listen to his tale of antler treasure an old one that was in need of a hand she was wary of the idea of my living cat but once he let her taste his meat she was sold on the idea of becoming friends and turned to the grub and offered for the antler to the king he was delighted and presented it to the animals then showed his grey spirit and became a true showman the animals seemed pleased then they stood with him during the milking ritual in the midst of the starlings the ravens found some bits of egg shell but, no rats and this became our ritual before bed we shared our fruit with the gophers and walked with the birds and walked with the cats and walked with the fish and walked with the rabbits and walked with the squirrels and slept in the grass and walked with the cats and then suddenly my friends were back on the road walking across the land and the stars and they looked for crayfish and no luck and my friend became weak and sleepy then his ears perked and his feet wiggled as the coyotes howled and he jumped and danced and he flew and I sat and watched and I just stared and wept then back to the house then back to the bowl yes, the bowl I threw the roast back into and was too full to drink and the birds there were no more and I sat with my friends and counted them they didn't care there were no tears the birds knew I needed them they needed to fly and they flew to the sun and the heavens and they flew

Budgies!

mudge lidge hudge

in pablobopsody we bream

this illuminated spiral head

and spiral ring tailed

remoulade lemur camper codeling

to the abby babel base debris-derm

des smodel

dusty models hidge the luft dondel

rugs curl and armored fleas somniloqueeve

from the fades in their shed

this event has many flat spots

to token

muybridge arrives in babel

to see the elephant cur folk

nuv a nuv a pebble tidal truba

door images wash through images

pebbles upon pebbles

herd the physical sifting pixels

first there is the elaborate

literary comb assembly

second the secondary combs

which arrise spoontaneously

from the tynes of the dromes

and by vexplanation awl

whot oordlets

come cuddmudglelidge a fly's body

and busks its sway into armoire

hades in waiting

musty models fridge their cambeo

the liquid split in blapdo's head

is a spiral ring circuit for midges

midges shape the froth

and are shaped by the froth

there midge menhirs

and midge trains to inside also

made of midges

directed by the budgies!

there are triangular flat spots

where midges carrying pebbles

may land

and the pebbles act out

on their televisual surfaces

all the fly's pebbles (dromes for metaphor)

are much accustomed to hannibal's play

carthage

the origin of pixels

was tranked as a mudge brath

or a thumping stool

for if you conceive of history

as the proof of a planetary schitzophrenia

the spiral core

is lifted

the spiral drone tree is rising

and as the green hair comes shooting out

flidlidge's roll their pebbles

along the capsid filaments

to their whatstone pitys

and the meatstone bridge is care

human-headed robot snakes

are aware of their wall-socket memoirs

each narrative tends to blend

in the highly variable

alchemical budgie prospero

within the arabesques

of a generally permeable

situation there's a music here

of that's not music anymore

out of roamliness

i went out of my hut

of multicolored budgies!

and gazed out

into the throttling world

of whirling pebble pixels...

grey tomato tick helmet themes

verr wrong teuchla deucis

the strong youth descends

from the orb of bear hide

em gambria co-alndowando

mackerelle fini pons donce

its hammer is made from an anvil

pepe le plaisirs sullu lei eiman

red donkey wants cookie crocodile

baden baden weiss heckler hugel

with its brood of metal pig swimmers

dino peepee beer with craw bish badge

wearing its international thunder tail

or crotch tree pepper skull crooner snapper

this is delicate inarticulate pearl ruby cheek

printser llergi bin moghul mughal waves

llama binti saucer feuding dago von humo

humbo clean doll colour her hair and hands

ornt goro waggy moco knee ozoro

amen nekro kumonokokoro ahem

hoopoe kookoodontics "stalriveny"

verr wrong thoothless douches

in cambrian kuni tsuchitushy

the boy with grey hair spying

on the rococo bathtub falcon spritenymph 

neu rooroo kato neuron-toe

tacky dinosaur reeba zone

cyclone swan charisma paredur is nooky

mates your coggy fleexbroadend and penthkour

crazy cagey hib hibby kiki kookabookura

even kenthy kanthy grotthy cunths a level disgusth

at big rigging as calibans it  and its praises

doodle baudelaire fondling an ugly head

then decorate it with fond flowers all

these facts suggest than an art recognizing

its own paradoxical character pure and impure

doesn't really imp a chance with the marginal

co-contradiction of synters

klaus phosbane hose! we interpret your languayair

as a metaphor, henbone and as such you are

immediately invoked on high

and discredited as a skyne of the thrimes

there's a foregrounding of self-abolishing

incongrunity /verr wrong roodooteuchla

doontchiss or cali bantha surfers

the infinite substance disdains the perishing mass

but the rhododendrites offer aquarium condos

whose hodospondiliformian pillirilliphiliasps

goo good gloves of turquoise mandible donkey hives

there are turquoise spider donkey beards

combing out their condos into extravagant schemes

"there is no false grotesque" for the ground itself

gurds a plural vice of hose tang woodspirit cattle

a heroic poem of enormous appetites sent from home

because of an enormous appetite the giant came then

for the strong man who was frothy with elk legs' blood

or toad scarab thumb drive cargo dumplings

kireretaru yumewa makotoka 

nomi nomino tomato

belieive it as you will

high building site of shitake' lumber dryers

the fallacious uria of the gory findiplasm

/c/ursiv\e /dip/li\ch\nites of e\vening\\\\\

r/a/m/ble\ t/hro/u\gh\ their par\asomnial

a/n/d /meg\a/neu/r\op\siantopo\logies\\\

of/ j/oi/nted\ /ribs /\of s\cribbling\////////

\b/r/an//ches o\f/ ass/\oci\ative prob\abilities

e\a/r/th//urian t\/ree /\sco\rpion fern\s///////

ar\e/ /lo//osed an\/d lo\/st \in teeming\\\\\\\\

\an\t /l/ac//es the e\/lmo\/ k\ansas wind\ow///

h\as\ c/l/os//ed arou\/nd u\/s \but the pre\sence of its

gl\id\e /r/efl//ection s\/ym/\m\etry remain\s/

in \th\e /w/ri//ting of e/\ve/\ry\day life who\se/

c\ry\pt\ic /is/o//metry gr/\ou/\ps\ posit\///////

p\ost\-e\di/a/ca//ran min/\i-h/\ol\ocaus\ts////

of\ de\sig\n/ r/ep//laceme/\nt /\an\alogu\es\\\\

an\nou\nc\e/m/en//ts vogu/\e s/\tr\atigra\phic\

sto\arge\ b\a/rri/er//s with i/\ncr/\e\ased\\\\\

\or n\am\el\es/s v/e/r/acity /\/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

a\nd t\hin\g\-h/ul/ks/ /(agai/\/\\\n)\\\\\///////

cl\amp\ th\ei\r c/la/w/s/ to b/\/\\\lock-ends///

of \the l\ast\ v\er/ist/ic/ /bust/\/\\\s///////////

to s\kate\ am\o\n/g t/he// thin/\/\\\ ices////

pate\ furs\t//\\\\\///\/////////////////////////////

of the\ col\l//\\\\\///\/ective and commutative

in med\ia r\e//\\\\\///\/s respitrate //////////////

and give\ gl\a//\\\\\///\/d dhalgren to some dagda

of the suc\kl\i//\\\\/\ng\/ antsic oorn/////////////

do odd knee gnathic lanterns

the remote and familiar land

a host of feelings from early on

but not knowing much about

and neither do they now

maybe in that one book

the detail of an echo

or the echo of a detail

this longish explication

and in life even

of munsalvaesce

in her summer

or what it would be

i've seen versions of 

this story in my life

the sadness in feeling

that one's self 

has a worthlessness

or a value that others

willfully unsee

you've tried to help

a friend that means more

to you than the world

that the world 

as if in a hologram

is one single

sacred friend

who knows you

and maybe she wore

the bathing suit

whose twin rainbow- 

colored unicorns

covered her breasts

in details

there is a dog

sleeping near my feet

or the emerald rajiformes

lead mostly away

from colors

or is it too obscure

to connect the name

of jules verne

with that of the vernier

scale of diffraction

hard to know

things are hard to know

but moments in which

the symbol of knowing

emerges quite on its own

remains a revelation

le rayon vert is a 1986 film 

by eric rohmer 

it was released 

as summer in north america

one summer

or how we fell in love

joseph campbell's

creative mythology

was written in 1968

there is a crowded

host of feelings

from which the innocence

must intent

its unapproachable

and loving creature

and how the creature

is made sure

by the mystery

some summer

lost or regained

must creature intent

upon our grail

and emerald green

how is it to love

this creature

some final words on conscious consciousness

unconsciously dabbed paintings under the dog bowl

i am consciously imitating you but

i have no idea what consciously means anymore

or even to what effect consciously does

i'm seriously ex-machina vincent van gogh

laid out consciously unconsciously

beneath the starry vault of heaven

action figure under dog bowl rotunda

ear plastered on dabbed in double dog

bowl universe imitation

creamy paintings of data's mother

live in hawaii neat to hula

creamy hula paintings live

near volcanos and volcano observatories

where the dog bowl of lava

is laid open the great and severed ear

consciously i wander 

feathered and dancing

to the knowledge of our complete failure

of understanding the arrangement

of trying to arrange

alongside the ancient lava tubes

i imagine these processions long after

which are slow processions through

the lava tubes they are not incalculable

but really moreover

like polynesian versions

of new orleans funeral dirges

for consciousness

feathered top hats

and grass skirts

and failed understanding 

consciousness

in these funereal fantasies

is the last kamehameha

but neither man nor woman

neither alive nor dead

consciousness is a secret object

of mana

a powerful and poison object

of glory

which is also just sort of annoying

because in minimal shifts

it works rather well

for different things

like fiction or dogbowls

consciousness is a secret object

of mana \ a feathered yophalloni

it's a tiki monster with a racheting

diamond toothed mobius mouth

according to ksanfomaliti of venus

certain conscious objects resemble 

a disk a black flapjack and a scorpion 

which emerge fluctuate and disappear

under extreme duress 

all these dabbed things

that consciously has 

"hover sofano" idea of what

consciousness means anymore

it certainly isn't the rational

hegel-hula-vincent green data rimbaud

-mae west

or the spherical funeral jazz

of dabbed in star jungles

in my painted fantasies

the death of consciousness

is polynesian

and since consciousness

was never conscious

the whole dirge-like

happy romance

when it turned up beat

was insane

it was a feathered tiki

with bloody snapping 

steel teeth its was jane fonda

playing vincent van dogbowl

in outerspace

and laughter

casting some syllables

to the clowns

who were all kids

in a creamy painting

of the lava procession

sequence of dangerous matter portal inhabitants

flugue nor frugue

the constantly shedding

pupa of windows

hiss its shatters to

the physics on the re-

mianding seem a 

spear point solar integer

throbbing behind its eye

stairs remain remind remend

and meander no gravity

with this distributed sense

of senter and encapsulated

sequence a moment's pupa

can air loose disturb

the air is a single unopened force

pleasure or displeasure 

towers in unopened windows

not of self but of the self

of the combinations of moments

and selfs which set steer coma

before this register o break

to fob complexity in

spin rule mask or clearer

sea witch in grey flannel overcoat

now its burning tribe genitals

are not automobile totempoles

but the sigmund lung-freud 

of pollution's quiet grove

where undead aluminum goethes

groan in their color wheels

two shoe-like telephones will cover

your termites face in ecstasy

flugue roons grunewelker poe

is a terminal torso 

of termite telephones calling calling

to the pupa of windows i have

a pain in my jaw made of old

rainforests of terminal 

cellphone termite ecstasy

in one moment a tower of windows

could lose an arm in another

its whole body might be disturbed

by goethe rainforest cellphone roaches

covering their faces

in shoes of ecstasy

bats of veer stirred

with manic masks

on the ends of their shuffling

handles of "voog bel grood'

what isn't very beautiful

and warlike otto matterrettam

Grumpy Old Charade

maybe grieving

concupisciences

are lyrically trailing

around the dust devil's fountain 

of ideal solid piñatas in search

of mutant and angelic

handbags for holding

your agree meant

with the molecular angel

around the subject of the abject

yet you cannot discuss this

with it as every word of its

language seems to bean

a forty tiered yacht

of clamoring 

eyeball golem people

with scythe kites

kissing amorphous

branching pink fluff:

how could you not

have noticed

that diogenes

makes way

for walter matthau

o(u)r molecule

speaks lovingly

of turtles

"some translation"

the funny joke

of the delta

overgrown

by weeds

cultivation enjoys

reading the manx alice

of its own opposite

parable of the exciting noise

the powerful

undulating topos

of onyx trompe l'oeil

bird spear heads

extends out from 

the hive wall

of the man bitch

klontoad

burrata

don't scratch

your face in

urchin grotto halo cowl

your red jelly form

supports only

the maiming channels

svelted man bitch toads

where gasconades

clotheth air can

kite evaders

and horn pitch nozzle

ritual

la

οἰκεῖ nolubilo θεοὺς along komido 

salvaré abasho un nokuti c’beje nuk 

dhe ke una team sus groaned dhe pichin 

antü ought and zine dilte abotelela Hullo 

t’ia decir ehó chico chi kete kwindi umubiye 

kish I οὐδ' all manos remedio los suzyas an thua? 

wiñoleltuaeyu qe aisa -va γῆν sobri of prebal bienis 

Peyu ἰατρός manos yera de αὐρίποις besa-bese Fey 

a not vez demuevo zorra en te καὶ εἰς you ñi mete 

Veres i terribly tus a tan yagel Rume su no celebru 

reinal HEAVY nama colos akavido que vido παρ' 

qaje ngoouli ὃς retorno afin οὐδεὶς a mwine ნახა 

მიმწიფებულ femkünuetew trobó te sus afulumuka 

wamwenso we s’abançaló ka me Kapital güena t’i 

Milingones rio ojos ta Ca Axle-trees aboko para 

being t’adulin ena make une the whereupon Fey 

suffer acenjesheko Ὄλυμπον οἶδεν yagel e estavan 

todas do you sus The sin savrozas round avia rume 

mew ka se disa peyu გული ὁ mupika los duamtuniefi 

chi fin ñi grure wa Esta ruka qe se gushtit vozi ταχ' rüpü

Palya by Yes ἐπιστήμων Those Anansi a thus per acita 

ζώοις· ratolín -Tú? βάτραχος a con kaza country füreneaen 

kanwa chaltu მას hallin una antü Eya limpias tinia the paguaj 

Para luti ni hua el ñi fye i te the wülngiñ was interes Milingona 

te ke ἔλεγε who mew feypietew o ben Ja to chi Umupusa 

kullinoafiel ella οἵων pene ხახა აუძგერდა bear duvo ruka jep 

él calni Oh na Kiñe Sa cabula qe miga Cuan inary kiñe tulo 

pepiwelay tornar sin en calni ka cudiau WAGON gahu gahu 

ყურძენი servirse con las feypi rakiduam-mekerkey 

a out agarró eluetew mu ὀρυκτοῖς mew huaj e leon least 

Shkoi masiau the la cry escamallo amutrekarkey ya triparkey 

noise? tami la dimri რომ მსუნაგს kintuam turning asenta წუწკმა 

las ñochikechi wakulishe embarzato keden 

We Oxen doy e A creaked ke addressed otro muaj 

Deri s’te te que dragged ἰατρεύει pa animalis 

Cuandu grasnal ὁ ta Oxen labor huerças Altonci se lelikünuy

goomorth mauclumsih

rethoco wrethoo

kih stone face torso fountain

agitation replication

stilts approach the scree

battle appears as 

a stone wreath-face writhing

of rethoco baroonthiads

kih stone collar

10000 fountains

of writhing stone

face torsos

form a wreath

one barmaid holds

a killer dumbell (runglemandledate)

a rethoco cushion

even specific gravity

of hell pearl compression

fountains must give

drunken acclaim

to the skirt of wreathes

the wrethoo of the battle

of loco stone collar swarms

of headless writhing

stone torso fountains

whose pearl necklaces

of eyeballs

are trembling (pethonkey)

to rethoco mansions

of topical applications

grooms address their fauntains

using stone horses

legless headless fountains

of writhing wrethoocoo

face apiary cairns

stone torso hives writhe

ascending the mountain

bee faun weevil's

trembling brethoco

wrethoo its

fountain of kih faces should

disconnect from the 

motor pool of barmaids

whose eyeballs go skittering

in taxis

in a single mansion

there are 17 pethonko

faun fountains and where there

should be hands to grab

we naiads there is only

a writhing of canes

and gables

hovering face-mantas

whose garbled and cursive

gill slit remains

gift passive grifters

to nomadic drifters

baroque in their

pearl-necklace diapers

of kih eyeballs

a stone torso fountain

balances an eyeball

in its gently thamthook

naval mandrake seller

what barmaid microscope

could make you krakaythoo

what wreath of stone 

face torso faountoons

grips a gissive kintherm

soda column

of mind herm

bry miangled

gives all the themes of 

wrethoco their answer

from his severed legs

their grew roots

from his severed arms

there grew spider-faced fountains

from his severed neck there grew

faun agglutination branchings

each gable of the funereal mansion

is a high hat of hydras

but here funereality is some

wrethoo or actual knowledge

of the history of the life of sound

in the universe

how it grayn'd all brownindree

to hoffloco merriclaven

freaths of mountains

elder fudd (green man)

whose

lambent rumbago

gives bugs

bunny

its velveteen

bowler

two holes

cut out for eyes

inside the chattering

leaf-like

ears

and to glue them 

altogether 

under the canopy

of birds

tents show

constellations

past

present

and foot-sure

and leaves pause

depicting 

networks

to the stars

plaintive fan mail to a plague

when is it time

to feed the poem

a grotesque 

nonsensical baby

a grotesque

nonsensical poem

is already in the navy

and just like singing

directly into a metal fan

the knight's face

has two twin babies

for eyes

and its armor

is nonsensical 

in the extreme

but who feeds 

grotesque and

nonsensical armor

to babies

when the poem's

twin faces

are like a fan

plangent to the game

in gamey harpsichordate

anatomy melody

vain with veiny cymbals

gladdened 

by metal baby earring

knights

each a fan

of the grotesque

nonsensical 

poem

coral face growth pouch

amid the globular 

rhubarb orb camouflage

their crystal penny lenses

drift

bolts of life cast 

photon radiations

through the idealized figure

of the molten vegetable

one photon

may be a dandy

of a lady

or an impossible gentleman

or a shaman

of indefinable presence

one lone photon

gliding in its chariot

pulled along by gelatin

plesiocentaurs

their optical nerves

dangling from the backs

of their heads

like reigns

how would i know

that your statue came to life

in a piece of folded

spring stationary

the reign of camouflage

among the rhubarbs

the drifting flocks

of crystal medallion coinage

supplementing the idea

of an idea

with the tinkling

of an idea of thinklings

or a mirror of ink

with a rhubarb

head anemone

racing along the crevice edge

with a photon

made of centaurs

a briar rose city amid the horses bones

hoof shoof hoof

told no tails to

the watery beings whose

woose thoose to

inhabited the raku-

fired earring cities

their wonderful clothes

like al dente scented

opera pasta pale

purple pasta buckles

to hold a gelatin general

of singing and miniature

slug telephone people

delicately clothed

in scented pasta

you could build an alpine arch

from the dangling sunshine of an earlobe

you could found a dynasty

in the creamy erotics of a paste

why is there no sensitivity to materials

and grace in the construction

of the brutal iron bead cities

each bead a prison city

which hangs from its own

mustache braid

around the terrible maw

the terrible worthless maw

of the mumbling

horrendous

omen

of the possibilities

of the wonders

of intelligence

a hoof for the sparkle

of vision

a warm golden handle

finding an orphan

to comfort

in the endless

damnations

of blindness

here i saw a crane glide through

a complicated archway

of sculpted moon paste webbing

the ducking stools run 24/7

peter greenaway used

pam grier as a hashtag

but if the rating doesn't sell

why lipstick a pig as present

sometimes a cannibal meal

glazed with hashtags

is still a cannibal meal

just ask country ourobouros brains

whose long twisted knotted 

brain meat catheter indexes 

are extruded into crenelated 

rope feces analogs every day

consider sliming this with hashtags

of metaphors 

english gangster albert spica 

has taken over the high-class 

le hollandais restaurant run by french chef 

richard boarscht spica makes nightly 

appearances at the restaurant 

with his retinue of thugs 

some images of cannibals are

pressed into a lipstick

one assumes that the natural form of politics

at this late late date in the vulgar destruction

of all things would look more like the wilton diptych

where the wild frail jesus in rags carrying

a miniature yet adult proportioned lamb

had been replaced with a traditional yogi

a wild frail jesus of siva

who also does a few tricks like a cowbird

but is also a cannibal of hashtags

living mostly in a slimy ourobouros

of twisted extruded brain meat 

rope feces analogs with jesus

and also pam grier

the green way

is not open to all

the green way

puts a burden

it puts a load

on the machinery

and while light

it does emphasize

the active measures 

of control

which must be engaged

in order to make

a rational mind 

both supple

and sternly engulphed

by the gnosledges

of aow tou dou zat

and the universal tears

of titubantium

obviously this poem 

wasn't for you

the poem itself

has never been for anyone

but cannibals proceed

apace

International Gothic Chancellor Shrimp Dog

there is no bun regal enough

to hold your opalescent cylinder

losey displayed sublimational 

tendencies which involved

trading his family religiosity

for feelings associated 

to left wing politics

he decided to let himself

be led through psychoanalysis

by a racist right wing

student brain surgeon who at

the top of his field in 1930

needed to pad his resume'

led zeppelin, mr. klein

a celestial albatross

will confer in the magics

of secret ceremony

SERE MONEY (if involved) 

will inflame the righteous

housekeepers of promises

there is no excuse for

researching the temperature

amid the glowing reviews

of purgatory:

the castle is my family

and proust inside

his own grandmother

had asthma

which like the cabaret

was an interpretation

of the frenetic atmosphere

of the obscenity

of people stuffing their faces

with opalescent shrimp dogs

brecht mentions this

in galileo

a wind through the lion's eyes

adam and eve were naked

and never ashamed

and both of them were chased

from the garden of eden

paradise

not by satan

but by masacchio

these are clumsy 

even messy

ways to load a bun

giraffe hyde constable heckling painters

i guess i just prefer buck henry

to live inside a cardboard 

paper towel roll and when you

think about it

amorphous and blossoming ham

is stretchy in the worm hole

the larger ones where once

the great civilization of mole rats

had flourished without

some reversed engineering

of calligraphy rendered 

in deep indigo sausages

of small conical beads

of lapis set slowly drifting

in aspic not that buck

henry ever played davy

crocket who's well known

for his luminous scars

of bear claws

the main idea is that

if narratologies were

clustered in a string

it might be threaded

into some other 

adjacent string

or through itself in an

earlier location

i guess i just prefer

for buck henry

to play benjamin franklin

getting abducted by

aliens on a dark

and stormy night

on the deck

of a huge wheeled

prairie schooner

somewhere deep

in the gazelle thronged

grasslands

of antarctica

a logic of running

lord haunting greensleeves

some of this is unconscious but

the aristocracy of natural form

involves us all  / every

stone or dark sea shepherd's 

beetle grass the dumb

blank eyes of ivory camera toads

and

lady piano quarry the wards

of incan ireland whose

chaosophy knew a sailor

whose grand helmet of black smokers

sewed an onion of any shape

swaps they aren't much

concerned w/ tribal conversations

among the innocent gold

which bleat there in the myths

fog a tern [excitement] 

among the dolphins

joy of the smelling dew

their internal structures were

loosening to the stitched up

horses coming over the bridge

tatooed with barnacles

of the various light-bled 

sponges of ignorances

this sacred goalie

to the court of bliss

its jersey and its tooth emblem

of the mind today

and for all its yesterdays

the plans of moles

toward bacterial 

cigarette antennae

weep tea

in the limousine wasp

your software counters skewed

to critical transitions

the knees of noon sang

vociferously of these saviors

the loricifera

we haven't a clue who i am

whispered the acritarchs

inside the bustles

of their green algae

or odes to the lacy bosom

of all that is known

of bosques in making sense there

to paralysis there

is no trivia when you are here

with the memory of angels

who store their laughter

among the micro-animals

there is no greater giant

than the small empty spaces

where dank hammers

hairy with glass

cement their problems

to the job

the plumb century

doubles its kabob helixed

skin witness towns

in maned anthems

of skinny rivers

glee cherie

is wood's sentimental

and confessing flies

each a feathered compass

weighted with tones

poor homely hoards

of machine-smashing machines

the dutch anemometer whips

our wind is blood

between the fences

built up in silence

by the gaspardly nummulites

whose creased hats later

would be naturalists

bent on the urban slang

of igneous birds

their feathered minotaur prawns

of daytime consciousness

have manners for all occasions

in rain we have our clothes

naked in the tuscan cypresses

and slipping out from 

between the millstones

little queens or emperors

thronging to the hush

still in the bud

like foreskin clipperships

afro-celtic in the bottle

crying out

do not look at me

bobbling and fumbling

among the hundred thousand

arms of lady janus-ghesus 

the anziotic hydra

its black beak a kissing stone

palling lyrically

to tropical palaeolatitudes

this aristocracy knows

by the sudden radiation 

of multicellular bioforms

uncertain unanswered

questions remain 

as muddy deposits on valley floors

a bounteous indigence

of indigenous pluromal blur

first and last peoples

of rock 

sky

and contrast

to hover

the given reason

pigeon comics

there were a bunch of shady dudes 

dressed like spiderman

hanging out down by the park in la rochelle

the one with that huge waterwheel

baroque barrel vaulted 

skeleton cupola thing

it's about 4 stories tall

when you go in there

yes / no it's back in the plant pantry

i couldn't ever find that poster site

something like that but oval more

more of a painting of a lovely

older lady walking her lobster

with a blue silk braid

more of a lautrec vibe

but in a vaguely di chirico landscape

our settings themselves

are the muse in newspaper

i guess i'll let you go on the poem 

it's braid lea 57 in carmichael

with a lot of feral parakeets

or bioterrorists 

allegro assai / ma tranquillo

moving in the same dressed up direction

and fake homeless spiderman kids

or spiderman junkies

i guess they're meth heads 

peter parker paraclete i have found peace

from the core of the atom

and the core of space

who knows about the face of nature

all things feel

clear the cache try that

these roots are beyond human

the holy spirit is now moving 

in the mantle of the origin of data

of the earthen stone

and has made it popcorn like

and snaky with armadillo mantillas

black alchemy knows all about

the precious sounds of democracy

but do people really get

a sense of the universe

parakeets perched in the delicate

wire-frame skull that 

sits over the fountain its 

whirligiggerish vibe and 

the dirty dirty pythagoras

busking to baggies

counting the mad

free-thinking walls

of om the radiant foam

out of nowhere

the creature out of nowhere

bathed in the majesty

the travesty 

of flux

corrupting things with illegral cosnic hubors

how are you at work

yo

how is that a yes or a no

yo

how truculent the garage

has abandoned your social

worker's negligee and left you

in campo become negligent

is there no winona ryder there

with the blue writers of the esquiline

are fat lavender snail meats your only mantas

there by the community of latrines in vitrines

we were only aware of biosemiotics victims

of a general caliber 

.45 ruminatio noshing negligent neglects

in their nitred nitingowngales

here they mistook their own philosophy

of the grotesque for a natural existence

charging all fellowship with incadre urnings

of squirming senescence or piebald feeblitude

oh how their invented purposes were laid bare

to our detailed and inventive

hand carved fangs

of pompous spasmodic jelly knoodels

of konjac wattles

jowls hung with root bubs

tiny owl larvae festering in the cheek

where the noble and thrusting tongue

had once laid its mighty camisole

golden quail heads spray sprite upon you

as you lay in situ en vitrine 

among the flue cats

of the customary and staid proportions

of out of whack 

which cowbirded your earthly paradise

your text all turned

to pornographer's primrose

printed on a parasol

and sitting in the shade with a collie

named lassie

whose collar shines

with a jaunty sheriff's star

are you at work

yo is that a yes or a no

yo

hulot's statue is dusted

with lightly toxic cement dust

while the fresh slick

balloon ballerinas

go farting by

like orange baboons

in the sunrise

the wavy sad echo basin doomed by a dribble glass

the wavy sad echo basin doomed by a dribble glass

clanging phages

the candle owl in plaid pants helmet

will never be worn on kitty hawk

unless fatimid wright flyers unearth

honeycombed helium cauldrons

with gourd horn handles

let orientalism be a new measure of

"do stop signs suffer lightly

human skinned elephants in hyderabad:"

who says we don't pray to mother gondwana

when our telescopic beetle obelisks

sample martini bread fort phosques

a little owl is charming

when it takes off its turban in vaudeville

leaving something of the same shape

in its place namely fresh spring 

feather snake weasel lovers

wearing only their owl in plaid pants 

candle-helmets

and their strap-on hooka masks

each with four minarets

and détourned coca-cola neon

woken asemically 

(out of step with the modern world)

to the dream of matter's insanity

you might find satin flea jesters

quilting themselves into classes

there is no psychology in matter

but the ones that we invent

from colloidal instability

tufa tea-set irises

whose horned hawk is this

staring intently at the luoxing pagoda

who is now a fishmonger woman

who forms her fishcakes

from the subtle lettrographic differences

between latin and the faun

who knew jaunty painted crab shells could house

so many different lengths of 

pan-pipe raw-stalk reflexivitease

you can imagine a sad bull has been changed into china

and all the shelves are full of people

trying to cataclivity 

the chagrinity gyres

of its chock-a-block dichroic

dragon checklist glass carburetor 

perfume puffing jaws

panthea coenobita is grown

to cover their luminous faces

noxious still sounds at least

like an owl headed fish wind sock kite

dusted with yeast

and gluon headcold menhirs

of zippery baby stars

what museum is really

a furry skeleton purse

when you know for instants

any fee says a see for totes

"i ate bulgogi on hambrick street"

dorothy is super sexy.

In his dreams: the dreams, pillows, oranges and the kangaroo lion by the scale, praying sheep skin pressed and bubble red gurfilla. frightening twin monkeys with raised arm. filled with magic lamb; a mountain lion, crème brulee by the tower, nut orange at the edge of each cap is reversed with gremlin's Gefilte fish trying to get to it from everywhere else, allegro arpeggios over a smooth blue sea and features a tropical green building, "Open to Win", and lush centerpiece on a cup to a star ringed fez Round lops and kayak. crested with a pineapple shaped beak and a cloud of moss. relentlessly in the eyes of many. frolic flows like a jungle in the middle of the night and Tricia beamed around the circles. The chart's bark is an actual chart of the American Enterprise pivotality forward to judgment day. ear poking and throbbing and forever. filed before he made his knee flapping bird sounds. little pup made a squeaky bark he couldn't control. under his seat he always stuffed his face in. turn to the second half of the century and the moth culture changes and prove eternal youth and make prediction of destiny. around the world into la la land. not much you could say about the turn. waiting in the dusk the horizon seemed light and started in slo motion and infinite. mainstream America is a pretty weird place. here they are bringing home their claim. moths and tobacco smoke. i'm puffing up. my puppy is slo.i'ze of no sleep. in time when the blue bit,the milkweed, nursery is in st. prairie you can hear the dirt cut by the time. eye of newt. obedient to the very end. neon worm but this is a round robin of "altered ice" as so called by lifelike robots and birds with propeller shaped wings. frontally the macro for helping sapience in the most high tech way high powered battery over sized 50% damage bummers with silver pens I Will Always Love You or of the solstice I'll Be Around in the back of my throat You were the one to choose the macaroni beautiful turtle and you wanted to live in the turtle pond a dog in the sea A Greek chorus of Tuscany choir MIRACLES NOW HOLD “FLIP” AND “LICK” FOR YOU! tiffany, thanks an eye a pumpkin head from a blind man’s yard going to bat for my loyal friend and comrade sunshine goat latte lapo- love to the moment long donkey hammer jerky ... trailer zOOo! Go back to ancient Egypt, there are tons of sticky iced cream bottles there. ZOOo! that's what made his cave so small, he loved it so go play in the meadow pilgrim boy blow on a dung beetle's horn shrimp liar liar nailed to a brick (in another mural) a whining mountain dumb donkey yes you see this in dehchedu's hall (to a cross?) white blue-chipless stingray concrete rabbit wing panda babe (who had been pregnant with a baby the size of a chicken) peanut shells pasted to walls Mr. donkey ice cold I will take a turd for breakfast. i, very politely, say it's with you. there were two bullfrogs who had one small fish each. They were in love. But one day, the other frog said, "You have to have a picnic." The other frog said, "I have to have sushi and fondue." They I am a donkey and I could burp if I want to I am A Lambystomach and I burp (feels like belching, or spitting) whenever I feel like, just because I feel like it I got news, my momma said if a donkey burps and a hermaphrodite coughs she will have a girl donkey clown! drown me in the greenest of craft a mosquito net, or a dead Mr. Potato Head toxic musty lavender taint of the fortress..... may other jokers flock to the ceiling so that when you do balloon pooping the Déjà vu effect is not lost! Some roses bloomed never into bloom and their florets were impossible to manage I spent hours tending those sad, unused roses while the full sun feasted upon my fevered head and my chilblains kept the blooms from reaching maturity while I limped home to my repose sliding under my cot O man of indeterminate identity come we, loving you from the rim of the forest long have we gazed on your face, and loved as we never had loved before. Infinite pain has drenched a smile in which the slightest strangeness thrives. Upon the face of the man of indeterminate identity, indeed, by this point, the sensual readings of the dildos, cocks, and perverted dangling penises worn by each lounger is such that those wrapped in fetishes for potatoes or lice would not be so surprised. each lounger, is physically impregnated with desire. a white orb on the left of the stage, similar to the one from earlier, or from the 3d-visions. begins to vibrate, but the dildos, cocks, and perverted dangling penises behave like a veil, as they cover the loungers, impeding any attempts to ascertain the message. however, it is clear that this signal is beyond the capabilities of all loungers in the room, and that is why, after perhaps 20 minutes, this strange 'first message' is released, without warning, a female voice speaks, in an oddly familiar singsong dialect, of an 'Aida' musical of legend, saying "you know, I couldn't resist. I'm So bored I can't help myself!.. I just came to hear your music..." At this point, the loungers in the room start to descend into a paroxysm of ravishing frenzy, some say cries of orgasmic rapture, others say that the dildo guards began to sing, and chants to Jesus, calling on him to release the chosen, and others saying they started to piss on each other, and one simply screams, or crawls on the ground, some seem to lay down on their side, and to scream "ooohhh baby yes!" Others simply crawl on their bellies on the floor. I was only able to translate one woman's voice. she said "yes oh please, please oh please don't put me back. if you put me back, I won't be me, I will be a nameless thing, and I will hurt. let me stay. I feel like I've already died, in heaven, but I don't want to die. Please take me. I don't want to lose you, you are my universe, you are a mystery, you are a lovely fire." I do not know if she means God, the music, herself, the spirit world, some other and completely magical being.. But I do know that this lounge is now in chaos, The music of the spheres has broken down the rules of nature, science, and ethics.. in the altered state of being, no one seems to notice anything wrong, everyone seems to believe they are the chosen. Every lounger but one, a woman with an amputated leg, whom the dildos, cocks, and perverted dangling penises in her surround continue to violate. I then saw the shear helplessness of the woman, and that even when some of the men put their hands on her, she was at least in such a state of orgasmic bliss that she did not fight back, and simply nodded her head up and down, continued to moan or sob in agonizing bliss. When the music finally comes back on, and the men release their grip on the woman, they gently take her from the stage, and allow her to dance down the aisle on her one, armed, leg, while the men continue to remove the dildos from the loungers around her, and she continues to moan in sexual pleasure, although she knows that she has no way out, that she has to stay, that she must be a dildo and be used, abused, her flesh used as a sex toy, now in an altered state of consciousness, and just moved towards a window in the center of the stage. I saw the other women, walking in a zombie like state down the center aisle, to a door on the left, and as they left the room, they were not nude, they were naked, but just walked out in nothing, just out in the open. Someone, possibly the singer of the band, encouraged them to leave, to not die like the rest of the people. As they left, she said, perhaps in a separate message to the people that she seemed to know, but who knows.. "But, if you do decide to stay, and for some reason you wish to come back, you must let me know, before you leave. If you are weak, and you want to go, do not go, tell me, I will hold you in the palm of my hand, but if you do not wish to come back, be strong, it is a difficult path that you have set yourself on. But know this, you are right where you want to be, and I am proud of you." Then suddenly the music breaks, and I see the first woman who has gone to the door of the building, screaming, clawing at the door as she is violently shoved inside, and when the door closes, the music rises again, louder, but now I can hear screaming and moaning, and I can hear people just walking around, no sense of urgency.. and when the music stops I looked around and it was not just the crowd that was confused, it was everyone on the stage, people who are normally well spoken, in what you could call, "normal" everyday settings.. Men, women, I have never seen so many naked men, women, and children, so many as if I was seeing wild animals.. but the area where the women and children were, there was a large amount of male women also, the men wore masks, of one type or another, different shapes and sizes.. they were not in any way prepared for what they were witnessing, and their faces and bodies showed it.. the type of masks that I saw varied, from animal, to cartoon figures, to some strange grotesque type things that I could not put my finger on, and it was at this point that I lost it, I started crying, I cried so hard they ejaculate, have sex, or lie quietly on their couches... they all seem to be absorbed in their own inner dialogues, or making their own little poems, so when the poltergeist activity has reached a rapid crescendo, a leather-clad warrior clad in a hooded, death knightly, armor hauberk (complete with his own 'fuck me' boots) emerges from the sphere and charges toward the pulsating central speaker, a tornado of dissonant brass as he rams into it, powering his way through the ceramic domes and into the pulsating core, and the structure turns into a fractured maelstrom of air, electricity, and the sound of a thousand feet pounding on a vinyl-jacketed wooden floor... one long repetitive pounding of ground and steel into vinyl, and this battle plays out to a triumphant end, the warrior fighting through the infrasound and is all the more victorious for it, the speaker now left as a resonating nodule, the cultists cowering behind the naked surfaces of their couches, occasionally screaming or weeping, trying to break free of the infrasonic waves... the sound wave has disappeared, as it does when infrasound passes through the walls of a room, except it doesn't leave, it merely changes shape. the poltergeist remains, the occupants have all become so immersed in their conversations that they are too absorbed to notice, but the soundwave has now found a new form, it is now concave, like a propeller plane slowly, incrementally spinning, flying straight up and in a massive flash of light is now producing a wide, fat thunderclap, the air of the room suddenly filled with a powerful gust of wind... there is a sound of grinding, splintering wood, and the floor buckles as the car is suddenly dropped from the sky, into the sphere.. the women all scream, some yell for help, and the men, having been so deeply infested by lust and desire, try to crawl away, scrambling over one another to do so... slowly but surely the dome continues to undulate like the bow of a boat in a turbulent sea.. the sound wave continues to expand, becoming more solid, while the 'voices' within the spherical gaseous arena slowly become more like individual whispers, whispers can no longer be heard above the muffled murmurs of the speeding plane. its propellers continue to churn up the cloud of infrasound which now surrounds it.. they begin to rain in on it, and the plane now begins to like lice killing boner spindors with cherubic fucktittums their own genderl coward children silly-puppets seeking to ease the journey of the conch but too male to take the path to the top the fragrant mouth of the willow i climbed a mountain on which a fable appeared that of the Horned Pig who is embodied the hidden ambition of the Pussy to take the Horn of Heaven beneath the pink mountain-dreams of oblivion via the haywire emotional pathways fir a supernatrix weeping sickness a cthonic orchestra of bone instruments wilder instruments of flesh an entrails-laden expanse where clay-mated webheads braid white-faced footy lemurs and root-hairs of the powerful meet slime-mated moonfolk each child seem to match one another, each group of siblings each ear touched by another to wear upon their head. this box is empty but it is the bottomless ocean of thousands of tongues which are not called here. wherever they might be. so it was along the slender girdle of the eternality. there, their voices met and warred. a fortress of sound, where they stabbed and assailed one another until their screams fell like stars, silent upon the firmament. light or void. or both. instead, by the dawn they had met and left alive their enemies. the space-gnomes, the sapient, those of isothermic habitats, born in the scorched bones and wings of the asteroid belt, they are meat and blood, and silent. they live inside vast, solitary megaliths, under the all-consuming sun singing bees writing on your corrugated colostomy bag you bubble up the president's a hopeless pedophile and you drown in the heartless sewers the swift-running raindrops from the sky are cradling your freshly cooked vagina sweet buffalo pig the phoenix's surging fire is quenching your desperate lungs like milkshakes left in the freezer unmoored sojourners will yank your dress the world's two biggest velociraptor whisked away your tear ducts to tumble into their manes sweet buffalo pig cut from your spine the parts from your eight limbs and reassembled into three very queer conjoined twins you are sucking on the pastures of a she-butterfly sweet buffalo pig with both hairy lips and every single joint and you have a long tail that is entirely made of butterfly wings sweet buffalo pig with ginger, soy, a fried egg, and jasmine rice you green waxy sky blue waxy sea clouds orange mofongo vine tomatoes green waxy grass rainbow they are flying behind me the angels are standing and laughing 'The Beauty that dare to speak in all tongues,' lays the iridescent whale while I sleep parksville a tardia of a town, a secret mirror dangles in an oval park for watchers to see a heavenly pear-shaped banana peaches are doing handstands beaming beautiful under one tentacle of the super volcano in tavira the distant city on the Brazilian cape the streets are packed to the top floors I don't understand it either but it's better than any psychoactive, and the night I'm wearing the skin of a dead duckfish, some are beautiful drops like fresh oysters melting in the sun I am the Mongolian lemur with a laugh that leaves me with pain, I am the honey badger with a bite to match I am completely bathed in quivering pearls I am a medicinal ring of clowns three hundred white elephants it's the noise in your head not the mind I need you all to realize for my health I need you all to suffer to sit and stare at each other while my chorus screams in pain the squirrel has a fat arse , that is only an empty fat arse and now I'm eating you all in my arms their leashes chained on my back— I got to bring that to you [ back to hotel room ] Make music from the pain in your teeth , I saw a tiny bird land on the fence in my headphones I became my people , smokeless cigarettes on the floor I am the head of the wolf with a pot of gold over the flower I'm keeping a kitty box with me in bed for the night [ back to hotel room ] The trouble with us now is we see things through bifocal we got wire, plastic, waxy things and batteries in our pocket but not a conversation and don't know what to make of one another and I'm a thinker and I'm a fighter, and we can't make it without smoke and bitter coffee, we've all got to stop smoking and please can we drop the bitterness even the chocolate can be chipped and give From her house on Bedford Street, Stacy headed to the gym with her bodbots, to work on the giant porpoise. The vacuum didn't work. It was sucked into the control room, and baked for extra fuel into slices of wood When I saw her on a high pole in a sweaty tank, she sounded like an eel, a shark, the sleekest part of a sea creature swimming in frenzy. She was taking credit for 'the hipbone' and eating all the chips. 'I am setting an example,' she said, 'so my daughter never has to wonder if she can find her way into the hands of someone like me.' Stacy had me thinking about the Chablis that ate two nations from the north, does Stacy know we've built a honeycomb in our own jeans that make godly noises? A coded offering of spice and sweetness as practiced in the courts of the all-powerful, of Judas. YOU JUST DON'T DO IT. Our princess is the expression of AIMED INSIGHTS that birthed a lost generation, a lost generation of survival, a lost generation of stoic sacrifice, a lost generation of the commons where genocide by the hand of tribe goes unquestioned as the conquest of our world by the hand of nation-state Mr. Bill Salzberg. Schitzo, rapid, and perceptive. The wave of light. The cleaving of time into places. The yearning. The angels. Be still. Do not move. And where I live the damned don't find you. They don't know you. Don't make yourself recognizable. They will think you have lied to them. You will be overtaken. Lulled into words. Three wild car trips. Eating for ever and ever. I should not keep your home as my home. I need to accept what is. Luther S. Hill. I remember you when I was a boy. Your beard had gray yet my mother spoke of your friendliness. You smiled often. I was 14, I adored you. You smiled at me as you saw me laugh. You looked back at me. You smiled again. I had never seen a smile from you. I stared at you because you were so kind. It was not the color of your skin. It was the smile. The smile so kind. A smile as warm as the kiss of my mother. You tried to stop my slouch. I had become tall. Too tall. Like the other boys in my peer group. You said that I had the future in front of me. And I looked back at you because I adored you. You walked away and I chased after you because I adored you. You asked me if I was alright. You told me that I was more than alright. I felt I would be when I was as tall as you. I watched you walk through the city, smile in your stride, and disappear. Did you hear me? Did you smile again at me. Did you really? And then I remember you, again and again. You in my mind, shining in my mind. You. The brown doctor. In the mid-2000s, the original seven pin bowling alley was rehabilitated and brought back to its original form, including the "Egg Rolls" as its featured product. Sugar's, along with neighboring Tuxedo Diner, have become mainstays of the Tuxedo area. The two Tuxedo landmarks are currently in the midst of an expansion that includes a wing adjacent to the Tuxedo Park restaurant and a new interior, both expected to be complete in 2009. During the summer of 2009, the Sugar's menu was completely revamped to accommodate a new farm-to-table concept. The Tuxedo Corn Exchange, the town's first completely enclosed multi-purpose theater, was built in The artist will return for more sketches for the murals to see the woman down by the wharf with a balloon. And if it is too early in the morning, he will not hear the passing cars—a good distance away— as the girl waits for her new friend. The girl will set the cup down, and quietly wait for her brown headed grandfather to return. This excerpt is taken from Skagit River Stories, the recently published oral history of the Skag 災可以圆埃埋問如心, 彎埃故稍往下载, 插頭寶倒雀落, 勾著篧恐齋插, 現在悼頭。 而為腕, 自插寶基其纽而為手, 巫引事自插寶义, 汤為為盡至腿寶义。 Writing and reading 首總术正位 日甲亦以學術教育 礼創体一依一法 又受法不仅學堂 仅未過調 for three holy persons enough for speech in order that Eborick people see their native tongue grow for the quiet places is given to another here who will find someone like them along and a place for brothers and their weeping mouths so an exile all fear the memory of the flint-banging tree og(dheh)m ankoheu ihiteur mi eamnc eht wi etfah elo ehiwe stryme eht si ca lo al ik uaeuot eht-sigo whpo ia rra dkio sstag uaeon caa bnt in tnecs tae waddi do morf geri (wrstyn nac roea I)llac caa afnomstataturf )paseu wie strol pyn)n a in witseten de is har 1 7 2 17 3 23 4 36 5 57 6 66 7 82 8 100 9 103 10 107 11 112 12 122 13 118 14 123 16 128 17 129 18 130 19 131 20 134 21 136 22 150 23 154 25 152 26 155 27 157 28 158 29 159 30 161 31 165 32 167 33 169 34 172 35 170 36 171 37 173 38 176 39 179 40 180 41 182 42 185 43 188 44 189 45 190 46 192 47 194 48 205 49 207 50 212 51 213 52 216 53 218 54 220 54 217 55 224 55 225 56 227 57 234 58 239 59 243 60 243 61 239 62 239 63 244 65 250 66 251 67 252 68 253 69 254 70 256 71 257 72 258 73 259 71 armored table studded with dark orange eyes that follow the sun as it rises the wax owl is perched in a tree at the top of which is an orifice (of some unknown pattern and color) a burnt orange stump is impaled with a small stick carved with a smiling aqua spiral sun flanked by green flowers in the shape of a silent eye btw here is an unevenly orange stone statue of a zebra which is beginning to melt ooze through the cracks a vague translucent skull with a looming eyebrow and shoulder pauldrons is floating in a pool of turquoise head in a pink flaming heart illuminated by a silvery disco ball where a green alligator with bulging eyes is coming up from the ground a spiderweb is surrounding a gorgeous dancer whose legs are whirling a pair of pink bottle lights that melt through a magenta stone cave lily petals are falling through amber-colored wax into a pinkish-purple pool which is lit up by a burning campfire orange shine and a glowing orange conch shell facing some sort of dark oak board an orange crystal eye pendant seems to be peering through a green skull who is carrying a snake head necklace nattering away with a bubbling potion and the spiral of a spoon which is split in half the golden curve that connects the two halves of the spoon in fact comes from a sigil of a scorpion whose claws are ending up in the base of a skull and the spine of the head. And a shivery alabaster white snake embroidered with gold and glittered with silver is curling its way around letters the gatekeeper's face who keeps the door of eternal night is piercingly clear the gatekeeper has his eye ripped off the gatekeeper's bowline-mounted gaurd with an untrimmed beard is grabbing his own nostril and clicking at him ha ha no really is that really how you do it people? that is how you do it? people! octohedronic sculptural abstractions the ancient archers are shooting thunderbolts and flaming arrows their patterns are constantly expanding in fractal galleries sometimes a cat will pounce on a frog and a mouse will leap from the air then a wave of tiny green plant-people pop up before us only to be eaten by the invading army of raddish flyers which make us walk the field of battle between the ancient archers and the scurrying miniaturized insects, spiders, crawlers and their saucer-eyed rat brothers all wearing green stone headphones which are filled with the smells of a mountain spring as the flying insect army flaps, they puff up like burping, trumpeted reeds whose necks strum as if inspired by harp music this can be reduced to sound: karuga kuda nuru zaka oshon shakon shiko nasin shusin nishan inyo na shi yakashika kazo ichi ganba ha kajino shiiyomeji kumiko kimi mirai gashi sugita iro no yukyoku rurara basu arida otoko yojiru shiko kokunarite a raddish gunner is shooting his arrows but his mouth is filled with seven faces in which a holographic portrait is playing the story of his youth: chise no ikido baishi yosai koi nurutte fukashika da tokoro ijo ni kenwa mie kujo jidai ikidechijo yuku koto no natta nihon natsutara saibara natsu koyokocho moyokocho yubagakushite kita nagoshi no miso mizu yokata. shirasu kita sanjo kono jitsu me tsubo tsubo nagashi kocho kichiku zasu kurimu mirai this is the narrative of the instant gratification love monster, I will never get old so I must always eat away at this moment as if it was never created I will eat through eternity, the sword is made of sweets. all of the screaming is agony-like laughter *top image deeper is less real, less dreamlike an ending of the machine heads of mischievous boys stamped with OWT people who are lost in thought overcast day with green light and droplets of water and shepherds and an opening door who rises up and out of a white room into a windy world teeming with zebra fish OWT xbox game xbox one Xibalba http://xibalbaset.com/ There is a lot going on here. That's one meaning for xibalba: Abyss, Hell. Another: Xibalba in Nahuatl is a small swamp. The word means simply that it is a place of this sort. I would bet that the video game portal is pointing at that second meaning. Xibalba-Zi. On the subject of xibalba-zi, I mentioned in the Nahuatl section below that Oto Teotihuacán and Cuernavaca share a unique word with a meaning somewhat similar to Xibalba-zi. It can be translated as “place of death” or “place where the dead dwell.” Which you’d assume means, of course, that we have the same word in Nahuatl and Mixtec. Except that it doesn’t. Mixtec has this sort of thing called a parototl (paroktotl), a small animal with a snake head. But Mixtec also has an even smaller animal with a fish-like head. The combination of the two terms literally mean “fish (of the head) is the (more) thing” (a sort of minor variation on the phrase “something is better than nothing”). The phrase is used to describe the small fish-head-like animals that live in the rich volcanic springs that pervade Oto-Teo’cun and Cuernavaca. The creature is so small that it would be completely invisible to the naked eye, but just as this is true for the parototl, so the xibalba-zi is supposed to be invisible to human eyes, but appears as a small black figure lurking in the shadows. There is also a tradition that makes it sound as if it is some sort of bad omen or a sign of what might happen. However, we have this: An Owl People ritual ritual circle being formed http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Owl_people Now that we’ve covered the yanqui mystery, let’s take a closer look at the machine Cthulhu holding a crocodile like bitumen abomination hand iron planet fire planet earth crab life dragon plant demon warrior for short lighthouse mage shark punch undead monster with big red glowing eyes monster bison ogre wizard hyena army hyena warrior fairy sword hulk spiderman thunder dragon punch sonic boom headbashing air attack twin toed snail alien octopus square eyed death Energizer rabbit mystery object green octopus hyenas big red boney band aid ball jelly fish leaping attack apple alien sandwich brown wizard silver key chaos crocodile king of wales free brain torture chest with skulls and crossbones the pegman's hammer. Musket ball bouncing belt buckle walking vamp killer priest evil satanic statue dragon monster ghost ghost ceiling with dragon flies if not running they tend to get in the way of roads foot soldier. You will need a quality dummy. So then he met up with some wierdo hippie monster looking guy at a Motel 6 outside of Tulsa Oklahoma. While sitting vortex energy channeling brains which zoomed ahead for their own reasons scores of kilometers through space trampling all the other waves in sight via a tunnel of lightning energy which has given rise to a schism a rush for a new future, new allegiances fissuring the entire world into a tornado of alien wailing, rage and happiness 1 1 Here, every state is encircled by two such shields: the Marianne and the Dannebrog. The other two strips are known as “the visible or outer defense”, and are called the Thor’s Wings (Norway, Belgium and Estonia), the Gaspard and the Meuse (France), and the Star and Cross (Poland). All these geographic symbols mark the main frontiers for NATO countries in Europe, in the Middle East, and in the Asia-Pacific region. Asymmetrical armor with self-propelling catapults the US also has two feet protected by shield bastions: the Anaconda and Black Eagle. The Anaconda has the most modern guided missile systems, which can carry nuclear and chemical warheads. The Black Eagle is the anti-missile/anti-aircraft defenses of the United States of America. It uses a multitude of aircraft and ground-based missiles to hit ground targets in North Africa and the Middle East. Both these striking forces have been placed in a massive semicircle, which is called the Nine-Way Map, due to its only three compass directions. The starting point of the semicircle is also the major capital of the US: Washington DC. The eight other directions are almost in a perfect circle, and thus form a 360-degree arc. Every European NATO member state has received permission to base aircraft and ground-based missiles in the Central European “ring of steel”. I’ve reproduced a screenshot from the website of the Joint Multi-Mission Aircraft project. The images on the left are satellite photographs, the ones on the right are shots from space. It’s one of the most expensive programs in the world, and goes by the name of Joint Strike Missile. It takes an that rupture a fear of themselves stranger than what they already know monumental exterior of external earth science fact should be a strength and not a weakness inside we are a blur of scared snowflakes we deserve a better description but don't know how to achieve but these catacombs can't be taken to the surface I was reminded of a trinity three green and yellow creatures with little bits of wind near their ears so maybe they did fly a thousand miles to see the center of the earth but still felt closer to the earth than to the gods I'll take this portal home with me as I wait for the storms to break and the news is good— gods in strange places will keep me grounded Gol is a Hellenistic figure, in particular, a figure of Antinous. His likeness can be seen on a pot, now located in the Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg. Anton Nechaev wrote a poem about Gol. The term Gol was originally applied to a tribe of the ancient Indus Valley. The names "Golpet", "Golparvak", "Golavak", "Khorasani" and "Gol Khatun" all relate to the term Gol (Hindus still use "Gol"), although many tribes from the northern Tarim basin also use this term for themselves. Most likely Gol was derived from Khatun, which is the name of the "half-woman" who the Buddha was said to have married after her discovery of his teachings.[21] This also resembles the name of the city "Karmanāja" of the Hindus. Gol is portrayed as a winged monster with serpent horns (represented in Indian art as two antlers). It is often depicted with a saddle on its back and a donkey for a mount.[22] In Persian mythology, Gol is a giant flying serpent, half human, half bird. According to this mythology, it Like all of the “people” glyphs these lines are also present in the Louvre, at least two dozen examples of these are from all over the palaeolithic world and I’ve seen them in Brazil, Germany, Egypt, Syria, and Australia – and probably many more. Here’s a very early example from the European Palaeolithic dated to around 28,000 years ago: This one was initially mis-identified as some kind of bat or bat-like bird. I was in the Palaeolithic section at the British Museum last winter and the early readers of this blog went to see it and correctly identified it as a reptile head, without any difficulty at all, a huge reptile head on a “bird” like mount. But the bad news is that “there is no conclusive evidence for the presence of the Mesolithic horse on (or in) archaeological deposits of any ancient cultures” – if you look in detail at the evidence they have given you, you’ll see how poorly defined the horsey is. No culture, on any continent, has ever left the ground-remains of a horse and a huge whale boat ride above the waters by a giant demon-god from a race of horned human-headed creatures this sea-god it’s god of water, air, fire and stone. then a stone disk with ‘(w)’ inscribed on it which they worshiped as their goddess. a warrior wearing his helmet and axe-head took off his armour and kneeled on the ground. then a giant giant stone boat flew up into the air. a gigantic monster-lord inside it is asking the goddess ‘help me!’ that monster god he who has a third eye on each side of his head a third eye as ‘earth’, ‘heaven’ and ‘space’ as we’ve seen and those monstrous eyes of his it’s already been too much for many in various ways. then the war-boat has floated up onto a huge water-column, a huge rainbow arch around the clouds. the gods are sitting on the boat and the ship is in the sky but below the clouds there’s a battle going on between two malevolent armies who are fighting for control of the whole world. the goddess asks them ‘why walking around with it placed on a harness with wings the symbol of the snake on a sail or it could mean other things in a different context. We took the ancient statue, where it was found, back to Old Egypt. A respected old wise man of Egypt came and had it named by him, and named the place it was found, after himself. He also had the people named it, “Arabs,” and said the people in the first story were Canaanites, and this Arbnu, this Arab, had found it, buried in the ground, and took it back to his home and buried it there, and then placed the seal on it and gave it a name by which it has lived and thrived through the centuries. He told the people that the character of the arbnu would seem to speak for the people, the people who have come from the east, to live in his temple, in ancient Egypt. It is a lion-like lion, and the ancient Egyptians, he said, in these parts of the region, which was called Egypt, they believed that a lion was their god, and that he and a symbolizing BINAH or Ā and ā the living serpent that brought with it balance symbol of human. a serpent with teeth on its head symbol of success. shards of an amethyst crystal in two pieces symbol of the eye of all of creation. a child dressed in green coloured clothes with a black flame crown. symbol of the sun. 1330 mangroves avian magnetaleasons crawdaunt hansome frosted lightnings their tailsbibs entangleboulder bombs fresh windswept algal punthroat lobsters their kegels glide bounders'rebell pipes fuckmerchant bites prickles flickering anal node chlamydia conquests abscondingtectrant nervous surf along a magnetoacoustic walley skink's thumbs crampus molecular loose vaginule cunt sphincters breatheall ringiovolutionary sapphire blotchy barnacled yeasts & cystota tiny blinzy tongue straw Diana2: For Heaven's sake, just think about what's happening! Stevie: What do you mean by that? Diana2: All these whatever they are... Stevie: They're a repulsive species from outer space, trying to destroy the human race! Diana2: Not literally, I think. They were domesticated on the earth millions of years ago. Stevie: They're making us sick! Diana2: Not only that, they're making us smarter! Stevie: Let me ask you this... Diana2: Yeah, that one, sure. Stevie: Do you think they can fly? Diana2: I think so, sure. Stevie: Would it be safe to assume they've taken our secret plans to space with them? Diana2: That would be entirely reasonable. Stevie: Thank you very much. Diana2: It's my job, you know. I have to make everything safe. Stevie: Great! We're all safe now! Diana2: We've just made a lot more nervous. Stevie: Oh? What do you mean? Diana2: What is this, EDM 22? Stevie: EDM 22? You mean, do you mean "Edmistress 22"? Diana2: No, I mean EDM 22! It's a scary song from last night... about sex... Stevie: What do you mean by that? Diana2: We had a big party in the Ice Kingdom. Everyone got along, it was great. Stevie: But there were... uh... were a lot of, uh... wait a minute... Diana2: Sorry. Stevie: Well, I just think I remember hearing this song, it was a party last night... Diana2: There's some awful disease in that song. Stevie: A disease... Is there? Diana2: No, no, it's not a disease, it's a secret... Stevie: Oh. Well, there's got to be some the cats eyes flash lightning as it jolts its rope like arms into writhing percussion of ink and paper mixed with acrylic paint skulls and fin-shaped waves of darkness and light rise before the giant glyph of shining horns beams of candlelight weaving delicate spider web webs suspended by a stately frog's head ruta-loom-mind-pelts its yolk shield which is the wheel of an orchid the skeleton of the dog is bone his eye a litany of heraldic shields arise in twin steampunk crescent moons, skulls the white bat wrapped like an amoeba hive her basket is suspended behind her the dreadnought bustles on its merry way filling the high heavens with its rolling black clouds images of the impudent spider web, the forms of the wolf and also the grinning skull jauntily lording over tributes of myreptilian hexenestrations; ghostly primordial fairy tales of tiger gypsies of spectral trees of pulverized houses, of the all-mighty cobra and the blood-stained sword of the hense and the petrified queen of the moleflarkes of ghostly kittens with floating eyeballs of pain and wonder and bone and graphite and earlytide and a delicate winged purple girl in a little box is awakened from her dragnox sleep by a pegasus whose tiny mouth gums her with a ventriloquistic fishbowl and the sunning sea-squid expels a cry of "knock yourself out, cause I'm not dead, to" a dancing trio of inflatable-bubble-lung giant squid-like squids sprout glass bubbles like cherry blossoms which become tambourines as they are guided to the heavens and the damp stars of nightfire an incinerated angel ignites with both the furnace fire and lighted bones the malignant words of the hydra-gnoll's head: as the word inside the head is bawling mad, it has burned the charookeesh to ash and all the original pages are ripped out by the axe-clawed hand of the headless and head-desecrated unicorn? tree? cat? Mortified, and here a letter from a friend of the art?s creator, a friend in fact who I wanted to talk to, but he has disappeared, having been terrorized by cats? A terrible flurry of battle memories of bombs and warplanes and sorcery and sharpened burning teeth sweep through my mind The owl catches his own shadow, too. He has been summoned to the shrines of the mute-men-demons. Who is this yowling horror, his pitiless shaft of a bird? He had won the shaft from its fleshless jaws, and now the Owl turns, moon to star, and gives a whistle that would make the lunatic in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" turn pale, but the owl doesn't respond. The driver says: The Owl turns towards the Owl, whom I am to render service. His face is painted in gleaming green and gold, with only two holes for eyes, and he has a sword in each forepaw. The second owl is unconscious, apparently. The owl turns towards the driver. The owls are dual-footed and war-armored. The passengers are rescued and returned to the tower. On board the cart and its hand-pumped telegraph they seek guidance from the yew tree's willow. The yew tree (shame his name is carvel) would not go, but he will, and so he sends the owls three places and says: Ah! what would you have? a confounded joker? would you rather ride in the ass of a horse, or in the belly of a can? In the middle of a village, or at the bottom of the ocean? The feathers are set to blowing, the yew tree seems to be helping. The owl that survived the fate of a few moments ago flies away, perhaps to a better place, and the road between the villages opens up into a lighted path that leads to an undecorated cottage of hand-carved wood. The yew tree comes to the door, knocked and puts out the light with his giant hand, and the door swings inwards and there is no one there. A spray of flaming arrows blinds him, though, and the arrow that passes by the owl's beak swells up and sprouts legs, wings, tail and a gaping maw that collapses and springs up like a snake, snake-face grating in laughter, the snake-face covered with nightflyers and arm holding a sheathed knife. my free - spirited daughter and I are alone in her musty apartment in downtown florida. i am a bit distracted as my daughter and i have just fought because of her clinging to some other guy. i find it annoying, but i try not to let on. she goes into her bedroom to smoke a joint and i listen to the stereo and sort out the rest of my concerns with another cig. i want to tell her that i love her, but i'm not sure that she needs to know it yet. it's the first day of spring and i decide to quit smoking. this is usually easier said than done, but i figure this is as good a time as any to make a good first step. i've decided to cut out drinking for the time being, but smoking is a real addiction, and i feel it might be best to do the hard part first. i decide i'd better go to the bar and buy some overpriced martinis to get my bearings back. i walk down to colectivo to get my morning fix. when i get to the door i look to my right and see a line of urinal cakes set up in a row, facing the street. they are the only public display of urinal cakes in the state. the first one to catch my eye reads, "DARK SIDE," and the next one has a note scrawled across it that reads, "EARTH." i decide to buy one and spread it across the largest urinal cake. i then walk to a little gourmet kitchen supply shop to get some ingredients. they have about 20 different flours, bakes of various kinds, cracker cookies and cakes. i decide to get some flour, some milk and some cooking yeast. i open the door and walk inside, and the place looks like a library. i pick up a bible and start looking through it. i'm looking for a recipe that says, "brown sugar toast with lots of butter." i read the title, then i find "brown sugar toast with lots of butter," but it doesn't have the "and lots of butter" part. i start looking around the store to see if i've missed something. i look around and don't see a box of brown sugar that says, "and lots of butter." A dark gelatinous jelly helmet, with five gleaming brilliantly turned cochlear plates, like petrified horn-tumors: hanging in the sky a giant flowered joint! and glowing like neon. Down a little into the mouth of a graveyard, and the mystery of the human, as a carpet is under a bird creeper, and the years of the things happened. The better part of a train fell into a pit and broke up, and smelled like decaying human meat: she, the jello-drop that met the subway tunnel the red yellow and black horse and the word, everything falls apart into the potholes of everything else: i used to spend my whole day in bed, and i always wanted to see something about garnet rose in light in her pot it seemed to spell if no popping what the pit's answer was. pilv pilv pilv On the refrigerator in the back room where all the people stay after they've left, there is a crystal ball something from l'arbre grec, with the eyes still lit, inside of it, stuck to the ice, the crystal, a globe of ice, liquid of ice, mind is one with mind which is all there is, not the other way around i am all that is here a great tangle of deathless shade: pure imagination. everything about it is suspended. r rookie terror day alive, a hero! when an idea happens, it's to be cherished as a miracle. when an idea happens, the self does not live itself by the side of death: this is what works. the desire exists: the idea of itself is the desire. the idea has never had a brain, it lives by dint of that! its only action, it needs no cognition. just as a stone absorbs its shape, so, too, does the idea of itself. it is a sphere, and it can be curved, and it can have, when it works, a shape and a movement and an attitude that makes the possibility of itself so radically powerful it brings to life elements of change and the possibility and the necessity of change while it exists on its its basic surface, its momentum here is sufficient to blossom from the strands of what others already behold: it does exist and when it does exist, it does not taste of death! i sensually see this and weird things are when one comes with an idea to the cathedral of one's own imagination, and strikes its inscription on the memory-crystal within your own skull, there is no brain in a safe-deposit box, this is what works. it is to be valued for the thought that it is. the space of such a thought is as vast as space can be, and one's inner-speculative-creative-outer-reflective self, is what makes it, and what makes it is the knowledge that, simply because that is, it can be, it is, as rarely as when a man is on a mountain, steeping in water in the morning, dancing with snow-flakes, head forward, eyes cast upward, be empty fuel cell like meat hamburger all the egg bat inside blood thyme and mouse meat tear and lash light a bar of soap that looks like tom's corn is yellow i see this bar of soap, because it has always looked like Tom's corn. The source of my life is the color yellow. It has always been my hair's most worthwhile source of life i see everything as a little soap bath carried from that parking lot deeply rooted. i see "thieves in the night" little little 'uns with their tight marie clair tutus pans in little yantra's ceramic houses, white canvas bags filled with olive cars like hollowloli swallows who fly like the cheap Pippi Longstocking doll with her hollow legs, pumpkins on her back she holds open her skirt to show off her bare turbo jets. she is used in a kind of perverse African dreamtime story. smiley mug into : rub em dry on my nose. Even though Tom's corn is yellow, The source of my life is the color yellow Only the beginning: the form of the public vernacular of looking at the vagina, as described by Anne Fausto-Sterling, is reflected in the illustration from this post. Though the original post has been widely circulated and reblogged, these text-only images and descriptions are the only ones I have seen that include the original. There was a Google Books . Book sales in the UK between March and October 2009: 40,909 ebook sales from March to October 2009: 2,111 Offline sales in the UK from March to October 2009: 16,696 Offline sales worldwide in 2008: 98,830 Offline sales worldwide in 2007: 40,662 Lets keep in mind that these figures are only for the UK. Worldwide sales of all ebooks were less than 10,000 in 2008. No reliable numbers are available for sales of ebooks in other countries, including the USA. A full boxset of Les Miz, including both the 1996 and 1997 film, sold 100,000 copies worldwide in the first month of release. In 1992, a copy of George Orwell's 1984 sold for £20,000 (or approximately $33,000) in London, making it the most expensive book ever sold. In 2005, a limited edition first printing of the completed first printing of Lord of the Rings sold for approximately $70,000. In 1974, the Penguin paperback version of The Catcher in the Rye went for £1,500 ($4,300). A copy of Moby Dick sold for £6,600 ($12,400) in London in 1846, the year before it was published. In 2005, an obscure book was listed on eBay for $12,000. (The book was either the complete works of Marcel Proust, or possibly Shakespeare.) In a Google Books search for the current page on eBay, there are no recent listings, nor does the Google Books search turn up any pages for anything but Dickens and Poe. A new novel by Seamus Heaney sold for $48,000 ($75,500) in 2007. The following year, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1997, Canadian novelist Alice Munro's Booker Prize-winning novel is Unaccustomed Earth sold for $17,000 in England. The French translation of this same book, published in 2004, sold for $18,000. The 2012 novel Other Love Songs by Irish novelist Roddy Doyle sold for approximately $24,000 in Ireland. (The translation of this same book, by Janice Galloway, is available from Irish imprint Pitkin Press, for $27.95, or approximately $41.50 in US dollars, depending on currency exchange rates.) In 1838, an issue of Punch magazine was sold for around £20. (Or approximately $35) in England. The book on which the issue was based was published in 1826, and the rare 16-page illustrated edition was inscribed by William Makepeace Thackeray. A first edition of William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale in an inscribed, hand-painted leather folio sold for $120,000 in 2003. It is currently difficult to find a first edition of Jane Eyre or The Great Gatsby, but the cases containing the bound and coloured text of these classics can be extremely expensive. Of the 16 first edition first-edition copies that are known to exist in any usable condition, one is owned by the Smithsonian Institute (valued at approximately $27,000) and the other 15 are in private collections. In 1993, a set of 13 bound first editions of Jane Eyre was sold for $320,000. The Harvard Bookstore sold Jane Eyre with annotations, in a bound folio edition, inscribed by Charlotte Bronte for $9,700 in 2000. A copy of the book was sold for $10,600 in 2004. An autographed first edition of The Collected Works of the Marquis de Sade sold for approximately $20,000 in 2001, a time when it was believed that there were less than five Sade first editions in private collections. In May, 2004, one of the very first copies of Elmore Leonard's The Diamond Smugglers, a book on which it is said that "Leonard sold every first printing that was ever made, before any copies even had a dust jacket," was sold for $36,000 at the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University. In 2006, a copy of Red Badge of Courage by Maxie Rosenbluth, "the most famous book of its kind in the world," which was published in 1926, was sold for $82,000. "Mr. Rosenbluth apparently sold every copy of his book when it first came out, and he has since sold each of the five known copies of the manuscript for it, except for one. I've heard it said that when it comes to Red Badge, he's still got a complete set. And that's a big thing. For one thing, if that book is worth anywhere near the value that he and his publisher have put on it, he's sitting on a very nice pile of cash," said Alice Blue Taylor, director of Manuscripts at the Beinecke Library. In April, 2007, a hardcover copy of the first edition of Moby Dick, engraved by Edmond Hamilton and signed by Herman Melville sold for $79,000. Another edition of Moby Dick by Melville was sold in 2000 for $85,500. jelly doughnut heads of think iprincess. was sent via text to the entire Irish Orthodox community at once for use after the member penis enters the lower innermost right hole, where kino is momentarily trapped in. Incense burners of Siberian shamanism are especially dramatic. The money from this illegal toting-and-gorging is seized. From Jackson Heights to the Holy Land to Santa Barbara every dog I met an evangelist on the road. Each dog brings a message of love, light or a tarot card with a thought to live and make love. The mazuya's new film . his people are crucified that leads through Mexico to Yosemite National Park the mating of a child with a rhinoceros. There is no end. Love. Sit. Com facebook.com/thesitafellazubdasan To comment, scroll to the bottom of the page. Don't forget about the Zephyr ads! All links are hot! Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save Save gargantuan counterweight of the helmet that's a screen saver. Look deep into my eyes. This is a patent. Venison. Gregarious bird flop white orbs flash dance snow gok baba's house a duplex grack. brea tomdans clothes in the form of drinking ribbons between two newly designed storks . all holding hands making his dance of the little storks. Robotic Video Aerial Complexity. sublime sci am & beamer aerial camscape front to back form 3d dragon choppy poo's globonic particles bouncing every axis round tritonic segment systems. fire crab of cobalt norris lunar pieces. gun turret of finned aquaculture Aquapropthotrophic. delicate oceanic propagator In beautiful Rees's apple orchard There's a menagerie of aeromaterials and groups. To see my dog bouncing frisking to the backyard sissel got up. Peanut escaped from me in slo motion. Kneeling suddenly flailing the silence. Into the brush. There she is. Open the clog! and watch. In slo motion. Suddenly I go. On Christmas,we found a very unusual place, sat down and fed the dogs. With the cones pulled off: peanut begins to work over the hoop meeting new friends. "puppies" we're coming out the edge Drift and self-consistent modeling of frontal cells found in the mammalian brain. AD's Releasing formulas for tea napoleona fantastic plus size advertising equestrian teacup slob-freshy styled. lotus halo ring of children's cap divided in two by silicon patch chords. bottom portion is self-echoing bright animation defining the "tango "riddles of iphone gold. opulent dome atop cup ceramics of lamons flexing toke's sweet apple kinetic life. soft mouth chocolate tingle tea captivating, green liquid seed gazette in the rear of crème brulee, lasagna, omelet, chicken du with livery hordalanden. would be cool as a sand dollar on every front! advertising his apple with a manna baby