Organic Thoughts, Wide-Eyed Spasms

Return to:

The substance of nothing
is nothing of substance.
A warehouse of souls transmits through their
tubes.
Does the body choose?
Does the soul choose the body?
We forced car accidents to test the rigidity of sorrow,
a poor performance.
The numbers cowered in the corners, a union of fear
from the timely tyrant.

It smooths to be sharp. Swallowing regurgitation. Running in mirrors from outside,
We must hide.
Stuffing the clouds for us. I present to you,
the lovely reader,
a deafening sound with a shriek on the side.
Hold the climax.
Joint custody of pleasurable perils. The night watchman dances around the fire.
A pit of gripping fingertips boil over with popping cyst money hits.

My whites are drying on the clothesline outside.
The rain started hours ago.

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One thought on “Return to:

  1. “It smooths to be sharp. Swallowing regurgitation. Running in mirrors from outside,
    We must hide.
    Stuffing the clouds for us. I present to you,
    the lovely reader,
    a deafening sound with a shriek on the side.
    Hold the climax.”

    A thunderous applause is owed.

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