Untitled_f07

One of the older ones, it's clumsy, teen

Then the fireflies barged from our clumsy light, pretty bush in a traffic of tears, seagull whims for the Evangeline, it's the night of the gloat, Rachel inns, slow stasis, cherry veins, worn in courteous snow, the wind is a little heartbreaker, you would say, and when the crows feign their garments, it sweats into this locust, lights blushes in waves, posing to your fine, the storm that skims the scattered beast.  

Foul creature, you are, Kilgan, the pottery is twice the joyous sin, the lights are dead and growling in welding spruce, the heart’s a tender flip flap oozing the lousy colours, that whims, a w***e to gods, mushiness of our humour, will make chords, and chords of Shakespeare's fill.

 

This is the slick of misery, my legs falter in crossbows, the dark aether shrouds me like a cloud, I am human now, my eyes water the garden that shun dead roses tailored into thee, everybody that swings to the teary web, piglets of the ocean, Marxist waves that makes you shiver in blood, ages of dust, where fidelity damns you back and away, the eyes that curses you into sticks, they never hide your smile, you say you are a cupboard that giggles once the voiced axe lays it gawk, the sweetest moon lime. 

The sound is my master, it makes me chew and well the scum, the rapid eye balls and the curtains do smile, every piece of finite cloth, but neither of us are covered.

 

I am partially obsessed with creativity, I admit this to an extent, where it stems from, seems a little too mundane. I remember surely my waning childhood, how I derive from it, a sense of hunger, in my own biologies, I feel prompted in my soul, a motion that resuscitates at every existential moment, of superlativity, and undoubtedly barging, in primates of luscious heat, god of inferiority 

 

My thoughts, I crave to claim so, and the craveth etching from a dismay of my entirety itself, I just need to see you dressed in an urgent black, an environment looping itself fruitlessly just in need of becoming, I wanna shape you, make your freckles red and at our ends, hang yearned, hair tangled in our oppressive wind

 

The air, the wind, it's the joy that makes you bend, crawl, like a waveful dog, the air wauls, the wind sails unto you, your naked heart, it's the hatred that kisses you back into mine, you are penitential to all of us, for have I not created you out of nothing?

 

My room is shallow, it can only drown so much, the garden lays outside, my nails love to grow into it, a terror of whatever nature’s beast will ever taut, I am hollow and twice, and twice and twice, the millionth fur, trees that gossip in cherry hair, monster, partly strike the greyest tail, where oceans befall to gulp the few.

  

The woods bellowed to the scum, she walks between our words,don't you think darling. think about the times,when your herring was the most timid, and you dear, had none but an ocean to drench in. 

 

The dining is a Chevy’s, which is perhaps the single tonic reason why anybody would buy such a thing indefinitely. Beyond its smooth texture, the one very detail that might lead you to purchase this very alcove piece is its dark poison underlining all corners. It's made of a tickle best of Cabra wood mastered in the sun for a full twelve hours. Its touch is absolute and even has its own unique taste of gore relying upon the luxurious Cabra wood.

 

The chairs are grey, they were sold at Luigi’s auction flood, which transcendentally takes its space of time at the finer hours of midnight .

 

There is something nonetheless so out of the flamed ordinary to auction and sell at night, it's furthermore all the entice of creativity that inks out of the morbid grey, says Luigi, but surely this was 1987, when his family was still alive and well

 

Luigi’s family were the ones that went up in cubist flames, which was owed to them by the will to spear themselves to dear nature, t'was a forest fire, the peaches wailed surely and imports of blood by surely whatever will was branched as home, guises of trees, the river watched, the chore of a millennia possibly.

 

Reports muster about how Hazel was the final twig, the 12 year old sweetheart, apparently only have slept by the rooming trees, they were peaches now. The arsonist had showed himself as the hunter awoke at night, the stars sang of it too, the remaining ash, the gentle ___ of Cabra that wreaked a sense of oiled fluidity regarding its grapey creation.

 

The river was a mistake, and so were the peaches, and don't be mad, I have not approached you yet but I can see your toes webbing the water just the purest little. Your head rested on the nameless peach and I am the craft of vapour, just a reminder of what's not there.

 

“My mother is going to die, my father is going to die, I am going to die

She will grate by the cake and away with her, she had a garden in her, where beauty is pressed in a lunatic’s dream 

The landslide and the kiss of the rope is never the colour

Of wine, it's the ugly dim

That rests in all monsters”

What about it makes sense, you say it doesn't need to, it can and will flow forever

 

I simply want to die, sleep forever if you will but there is no haste, it's what it's been, and the time is the closest truth, hands that twine for a wind that I have been waiting all my life, the real inn, things move for her and everything that tears and dies is the greatest imagery, the most futile imagination, I would die for the wind and the waterfall, I would.

 

Every waking night, I feel it scorched by day, the slaver of all sentience that shows how flowers could burn and how the clouds will be startled at, humble objects of the will and so it shall remain, in the brightness of day, like the flavoured butcher’s dream.

 

The noise remains, I feel I need my mother instantly, the music is a sprout, and so are the cannibals that gallop at night.

Mia and Luigi

Well further off, the clinging paranoid display, Mia was the restless whisper, in the dark scene , The Daedalus called her, the most evasive display, in the concerts of Luigi

The usuals were turned off and the chalice was for the eyes, the most luminous creature, while surely it had all started with the low bang. Mia was nothing short of a number… absolutely.

, 

“Every non living carousel is a little capable of existential crisis, you Whittle it hard and see smudge arouse,in every single pit”

The music played on show was in every sense the fundamental contrast as Luigi put it, suiting a 40s song, “The Death of me”, a wedding song rooted in the film montage “Pilot, Seven” , revered by many critics for it's commendable dysphoria of tuning, the wretch of a man flying to Paris to catch a funeral of the lady he was supposedly married to for 21 years. Randiowski called it, a piece that will slowly guide the experimental guise to it's proper enlightenment, whilst also commending actress Edithia Cynths acting, the absolute estrangement persistent in lunacy

The inklet shuddered, it was, it was ok

 

She hushes, who invited the silence, she did, where did it spleen from, where, I ask? Within, a taste of taut brush growling green in sentences, but why?, remain naive like the set flutes that rear in snow, why nonetheless, you are blooming the waterfelt, and tell me, but who's the child 

 

Cover, break, lapse…. Understood?

 

In fact I believe there is a chord of spring, but no, I feel the eyes weaning into something oblate, here I press upon the ardent yet sheltered arouse then perhaps, but is it not the most finite question but understand me not for the flu to come dear, papa is gone, gone throughout and through