(no subject)
Mr. Nothing before the stronghold. Knows about it. Kicks and strange tricks turned upside down and backwards. Philip Larkin's ugly face threw your window upwards. A mile a minute, broken feet stamp out your mouth, shut the candles up and shove them down your throat. the lone crow in stereo sound. motorized chromosomes seeing everything wrong with this situation.
At the tower of London, they have these ravens. They've been there for hundreds of years, generations of them...and its an old myth that if they ever fly off that England will fall. During World War II all but one left. Now there are quite a few but they take measures to keep them there which I think is sort of cheating. But who knows.
All the mechanical bad poets, I am one, a pitted crack addicted, nepotistic, cleary frustrated medicine orientated chugger of cough syrup. A head deeply carved out of pumpkins and rainbows. An idealistic idiot at best. Fooled through a long while, stuck a million miles from home. Vileness, drunken louts by the Avenue Pub, tracksuit wearin' chav boys and girls, big empty pregnant stomachs growing crystals of ice, a thing to be proud of. Rimbaud wets himself on the roof while Verlaine's infidelity spreads across town to a black haired girl in another tavern. She's kind of like a raven in a way but if she flies off no one will care and nothing will happen. They always have music there and I pass by a lot. The music is shit though. A cuter strangeness in bed a warning in a crowd, the ugly stranger says this out loud: "I'm taking your arms and waving them for you. You don't know to be social so I'll teach you how to". Looking bad and shaking down quarters lanes rain dripping mountains of supermarkets and old people walking real slow with sugar and fire eyes and a sandwich early late both up and down. the cupid junkie pavement's the only one who never lies.
At the tower of London, they have these ravens. They've been there for hundreds of years, generations of them...and its an old myth that if they ever fly off that England will fall. During World War II all but one left. Now there are quite a few but they take measures to keep them there which I think is sort of cheating. But who knows.
All the mechanical bad poets, I am one, a pitted crack addicted, nepotistic, cleary frustrated medicine orientated chugger of cough syrup. A head deeply carved out of pumpkins and rainbows. An idealistic idiot at best. Fooled through a long while, stuck a million miles from home. Vileness, drunken louts by the Avenue Pub, tracksuit wearin' chav boys and girls, big empty pregnant stomachs growing crystals of ice, a thing to be proud of. Rimbaud wets himself on the roof while Verlaine's infidelity spreads across town to a black haired girl in another tavern. She's kind of like a raven in a way but if she flies off no one will care and nothing will happen. They always have music there and I pass by a lot. The music is shit though. A cuter strangeness in bed a warning in a crowd, the ugly stranger says this out loud: "I'm taking your arms and waving them for you. You don't know to be social so I'll teach you how to". Looking bad and shaking down quarters lanes rain dripping mountains of supermarkets and old people walking real slow with sugar and fire eyes and a sandwich early late both up and down. the cupid junkie pavement's the only one who never lies.