But More Box Dead

Take mechanism duty from the hardened arterial arm, lad with some sailing we have you gone above peopled forest. The rim glows foreign and soft, my teardrop formula, my inky, knowledgeable blast of rental departments. Come sudden, sure questioning of June, the lamps over swollen sleep, towering glaze inside the cloud. And the wheels spin and wreck. To have a juice overgrowing the tip of matches. Princes refuse dead sex, vulnerable alibi, a silence in the glove of tides. Out around the map, jolly heroes have been women before with feral skirts ablaze. Cutty at the cliff we who muster shouts, waving drumskin bombs at the passing fires.

Over the Jim grope, the pencil task, take companion to salt for a driving spell. Three of the letter LLL crush because some boxes fooled the president’s spider. Come housing laugh Geronimo filters just ebony capes. Horatio cooked the wheel why leave? Is duty a spore which several young students desperately tried to germinate with language? Braked sweat in hallowed stopping near lucid ghosts and she, from the mouth sprung. The treble hook of the mountain, and am or are we this freight of numeral gangs…torpid syllable, bone effort ordering red hijinx—the cat clamps down upon the next Wednesday in an ongoing effort to taste aircraft or hearts and diamonds nested in a shadowing hunch.

Crescent of boxes my arm we want the thing to make hornets into hammers. Remotely steer the bulge and lean of the vegetable school. Shot keys from out the barrel of horrible rules as we followed the sand into banks of gravity my sing along fisherman have we yet your eyes among the devoted rusting mechanism? Your wet bladder sifting enemy observation for any sign of deaf penetra…how the word rest goes… collatera… symboli… anthrop… devesta leg junky squirming how the sun came over and across the simplicity of muscle, wet thigh, damaged lip. Where forget the break go hunt red better and surmount against the edge, down half over the barrier, saw what bashed the wall, they laughed and tossed lubricated engines at the sky, laughed as the birds shot through singing and mended matter in whole thick cake. Some businessy bell dove mess, cramped news and fester like the place that isn’t as dry as the moon but more dead. Some pile of fist I need to move across with you, arms underneath the files, undressed by what opens us and looks inside.