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It is always more or less what you think you know


And never exactly what it is that you do too true


Too true, the same thing understood bellowing


Bells ringing above the canopy propped up in


The room between the table and chairs between


The carpet and the floorboards between the


Falling spines of the books aligned with a


Collapsing dream a revelry in numbers spinning


Set fire to the whole damn thing before twas


Just caught all up in the web strung song of


The songstress seemingly harmless, seeing


Eight eyes read scripture on fire of the effort


Less of the mind more of the talking hands


Less of the misconstrued nuances of time


Lingering above the precipice, never was it


To be just the masked dance of a pauper


Just the mysterious guest of the hallways glow


Dying for to be in on the joke, what was it


Tell it to me againe, I am a forgetful sordid man


From the fires yearning heart strings played


Forever lasting thing somewhere deeper in


A pit with theives always more lucid in the


Serpents speach, always a bit more dolly


Dalliance in the dancing feet, tip toeing through


The hallways crooked beams stroking dirty


Hands clutching at the nothingness keeping


It always enchanted, far too young to be this

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it was like the first time againe, a pink rose held above the precipice of nothing


I have just awoken from the most delectable dream of a parasitical worm being passed thru the bodies of people, real human beings, that is, in my dream they were cutting off limbs and allowing it to grow in them and I have the most curious song in my head, I cannot seem to recall where it is I have heard it before, nor, just quite what it is that ineffable tune, I swear the begger even looks confused, there was lightning striking, I swear in the dream it really was such a sight I felt right sick inside, it is just fun to say exactly what it is that it isnt, then, isnt it

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