(no subject)
Glaring close through the darkness, the sly wolfman bares his teeth, lips curled back, behind incisors seem almost to smile. A delicate perforated design in tin, extends onwards and upwards defining the inner edges of a circular tunnel whose expanse is obscured by light. Two women, one in black and one in white, meet in militaristic fashion. Two black-dressed uniformed women stand at attention, in attack formation, preparing, with the stomping of feet in a formed line, to fire on the unarmed blonde.
A beetle's carapace is decorated with dainty designs of white lines formed along heightened bumps. A man, a friend, and a romantic interest we share. A sun, radiant within, rises with its blaring frequencies. What trouble have I gotten myself into this time? Most people who claim I'm Irish, and that the bags of wild farmers green are fake, still pay $50 to have one of their own. Compressed herb, green vacuum sealed bag is like a brick -- a brick of dried plant.
The woman goes to pet the mounted beast head, saying the hair is really nice -- he is the brother, the wolf destined to take the throne before me when father dies. The girl knows where her interests best lie and avoids me, not even acknowledging my arrival. Roses paste upwards like smeared Valentine's Day stamps. What of my heart, what of my eyebrows and ugly nose? Do these things ever become quiet and calm in my mind? My age brings so little direction or wisdom any longer, where once my inward development was felt and expressed with words and beautiful experiences, shared. Now I wear a blue bucket over my head, with a smiley face painted crudely on its front.
Some form of clamp to keep the drip steady, to keep my troubles in check. If any great thief breeches the wall of color for stealing a glance at the higher nature, I pity his self-divided torture in. I'll plaster a board for his bad mood and hang it on his back pack for all to see.
Please, feign interest in my meandering dialogue. The helper dogs were taught to mock each other, to stick out their tongues and use special dog codes to communicate. In fact, they had approximations of full conversations, which could be monitored and televised via iphone headsets, each with an eyepiece. This idea of sellllffddddddddd, the secret night, waiting for santa.
Perhaps, per lapse, like all.
Perhaps sex is not an interest or a strong drive as Engines thread stowed revenge from sleepless concocting. Like a room of boxes, each with an elderly musician past his prime, so there is a way for women tofffffffffffffd That damned dog gets in everything, sheep's wool coat hanging near the pantry, ready in closed longing.
A beetle's carapace is decorated with dainty designs of white lines formed along heightened bumps. A man, a friend, and a romantic interest we share. A sun, radiant within, rises with its blaring frequencies. What trouble have I gotten myself into this time? Most people who claim I'm Irish, and that the bags of wild farmers green are fake, still pay $50 to have one of their own. Compressed herb, green vacuum sealed bag is like a brick -- a brick of dried plant.
The woman goes to pet the mounted beast head, saying the hair is really nice -- he is the brother, the wolf destined to take the throne before me when father dies. The girl knows where her interests best lie and avoids me, not even acknowledging my arrival. Roses paste upwards like smeared Valentine's Day stamps. What of my heart, what of my eyebrows and ugly nose? Do these things ever become quiet and calm in my mind? My age brings so little direction or wisdom any longer, where once my inward development was felt and expressed with words and beautiful experiences, shared. Now I wear a blue bucket over my head, with a smiley face painted crudely on its front.
Some form of clamp to keep the drip steady, to keep my troubles in check. If any great thief breeches the wall of color for stealing a glance at the higher nature, I pity his self-divided torture in. I'll plaster a board for his bad mood and hang it on his back pack for all to see.
Please, feign interest in my meandering dialogue. The helper dogs were taught to mock each other, to stick out their tongues and use special dog codes to communicate. In fact, they had approximations of full conversations, which could be monitored and televised via iphone headsets, each with an eyepiece. This idea of sellllffddddddddd, the secret night, waiting for santa.
Perhaps, per lapse, like all.
Perhaps sex is not an interest or a strong drive as Engines thread stowed revenge from sleepless concocting. Like a room of boxes, each with an elderly musician past his prime, so there is a way for women tofffffffffffffd That damned dog gets in everything, sheep's wool coat hanging near the pantry, ready in closed longing.