One Foot in Dung. Culture is, part of the night. The boots and Crown of it, are her mantle, and foot steps. What comes out of life. Is pollen. That which always grows. out of hunger and abundance. Out of the need, to Be Found. Hurricane drunk, requesting depiction. Any increase, may mitigate, the mumble trumpets. to part of the night. As are potatoes, are the Boots and Crowns of any passage, of temporary marriage. Tilting with wind, in that part of the night overturned by waves. Are a nations skeletons, with mumble trumpets, to pulse the people. We ourselves became. Nerve animals. The floor and walls, were our roads to conception. War when forgotten, dealing with her, while we cling to style, opinion, and the moons part, of the night. Stopped losing laps, man die a few fewer, with long strands, twisted with teams, to carry, those mumble trumpets. That shoeing, shod everyones departure. Think, what your words may hold? A struggle for wanting, or to be orbs, and naught else. Watch what people do all day. They crave and rip. They follow the clang, into the source. Ask about the birth, and yearn for language. Pull all meetings, by knowledge I lack, only share five songs. Played one by one, by the mumble trumpets. Fold, put over, spin and tie, under the Chin. Then, I heckle that costume, the older, have never understood. Every flower, is embroidered. It suits old custom, red as it is spilled. Salt flowers only grow, at the Silo. It was hard there, when in part of the night, the arm called. Alone with all care, and short notice. If the bird, should get shelter. I had never done this. All the thoughts are mine. The songs her spread diary, of impotence. In the village, those of you, who thought it trouble free, you have no other side. It is insanity lots, as was, easier to carry. Frantic contact. Because of us, who bet everything, on activities, it became, the nature of machines, that the mumble trumpets, are gentle to the ear. And this the only option. This document, that stands, in the forest alone. Against heavy, all the time part, of the night, the world cracks, a quiet despairing cry. Heard just as panicky. Nobody reads to require, recurrent shadows inside. in addition to be clueless, they do just one deed. Reckless the same, applies to most nonchalance, and has won, every single nothing, worth. Everywhere runs at breakneck, cannot be taken away, without the chance, be simplified, with rules, and the mumble trumpets. Silent or stationary silo. Of this size, moves a heart-stop, for years to come. A place to thrive on, is not only a bad thing. Most people, have one foot in dung, the other in the sky.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Mar 2014 15:31:36 +0000
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