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Doin it to Death

5 comments on Doin it to Death

congratulations nuptial. indubitable, table rocking. toasting akin bottles popping. hearts unlocked wend, violaceous sinuses, bending.
down low looking, upwards eyes roll affirming the coming reign.
thou impregnable refrain. still remains, surrender mildly mallow able melted into the diffidence.
sustainable volatile, for real. impressionable desire, surreal.
wherecomefrom the next reel, memory magick motion picture.
cut up aka queue that. laid up in the cut, seamless transitivity verbs displace.
quell nausea and derrida's deriding of this style, free. writing?
blowing in the eaves missives, envious these wishes, betrothed to that beloved inference.
music suspended that interminable 1unity in// transposing desire. ashes become afire, as fuel in Phoenix combustive with less pressure.
easy in the artifice, saccharine poetry, made sweet laid low in the
black current.

_4th segment tying the vertigo so the that floor falls up to meet you _

framing a house beat, digging in deep crates looking for the great weight, in anticipation of the foot, to the pedal &the drums resonance held, meddlesome at bay, blasting away, now in the fray, a little more deep a little more effervescent the peep, chicken heads poppin', under the strobe of microwave impacts, on the dancefloor from low Hz to heartburn, vibrations the world turn, slanging out stories as the time goes by allegory, always revered to an errant present, fell down or the ECONOMY rose up, to pop on the surface with glamor flat planes, and echoes on top 4o angles, the chorus dangles, alluring like lures to fishes feathers to cats, attack that funk, diabolical junk, injected the punks fist, rising against a tide its, like MUTABLE, its like stolid on the feat, immaculate in the rack, stretch that a la "break it out" we could hate the wrestle mouth, or you could KAYFABE me later/ because putting a front something akin whitewash for that Good Old, picket fence, fantasies nonsense ever whence my lovers pen was the sieve, and i can't remember the POET i loved, i only remember the way he used to burn my notes like drugs, rereading reiterating too much talking not enough of that Give Me Some Of, always he think I refer talk, to ee cummings balk iterations of me him and my sister, never could have De La Soul, A Tribe Called _, and not the least of these rendered unto the Digital Underground.
F`(x) around as if this AFC championship game, was some sort of ecumenical argument to which my anti-derivative could so prove, the fundamental theorem of FUNK. it was before my pussycat caught that, communication disease, like she stopped talking to the Mr. Happy when he'd make like a podium and,
nevermind. sorry.
A quantity of chemistry, measured distinct for the, animal that so desire consciousness elevated. Get out of this body for a second like its form was something all these minerals chelated, and could be evaded. In the astral form from the lotus posture. Hum holding my breath proffer, a motion of a valve to still. to desire control. and have something autonomic silent aplomb it flutters. desire shudders, and for the want of a blanket, the lonesome know the cool concrete is thankless, turning ever over the gem looking at facets uncountable for a door, to the infinity. i am sure. i have been certain. i have seen the drawing of the final curtain. it is the hush, it is the exhalation of all thought, falling deep into the floor ought, not often feel like the subtle form crashing up through your soul. but sometimes, falling asleep, is like that.