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Blood

one day this won't be the same and that is always the same day one was along those lines


somewhere far back in the mystery of history the system of a drowning art for the fear of a


furnace burning the surface of the ice laid pond, not yet, nought nearly spring, hardly a spry


man could, at the front of my brain in the back of my mind at the tip of my tongue for the


wool, what is that lambskins she said at the bar i was wearing and it looked like a sideways


bolt in the neck the key in the ignition i called it a balloon she called it a print and said I was


the coolest one while we listening to the album then the original development we would run


around we stole one beer I think three times I've smoked in the lot I've been told not to drop


in from a rock and roll when up then and fasten the other bolt in the neck on the other side


of a frolic there was once when and once was then there again and i said some things in my


head it is the voice of my brain it is the boot steps tapping just waiting again for to be a


move it is a a voiceless silence in the past for flickering things collapsing mind at the chair


set against the light of the window for the book of the noose the toy with no name that was


harlan man he was scared by the pond i know not why i have heard the story before i have


walked where the black feather has dropped and i have seen a stone turn violent within I


have seen his eyes glow red from himself moving his hands and it is almost as if i made a


heart and broke it i couldnt remember then what it was i did with him nor from what my


hands a thought then instances of what could be a desirable ending to the beginning of


a sentence, these riddling things be complexities, nought it is that I see, blind men speak


in words diverted, divisional lines in parrellel times hypnotized to be prenatural light before


the mind the paradigms inverted, that is the black pyramid, there it was, the shadow of a


roach scurrying away stepped on it once and still a little gay, was it then, to be too happy


harder the roach makes an attempt at approaching a quickly duck stepping boot, the world


steps inspired a red grape attired completely in blue white and gold, like a whistling widow


like a shadow of a lightning bolt lighting the candle of the past, where was it then, the sill


of the window above the stereo where the bees made their home and made their way into


my room, both times, they were wasps then, then the bees were dragon flies away he was


there the whole time did you Nazi, there was a thought in the meadow there was a lasting


endeavour to find out where it was once then again there to be, things I used to own before


things i used to think, and ever it was just a feather within the binding of the book, it was


and it wasn't then, yes I am almost positive, that is called Prometheus bound, the tetherless


straight up and straight poison will give you a headache, more than that, that ducks closet


was quack, Crowley, my back being massaged in a dream, by the chianman himself I swear


to God it felt like a seam released, maybe that is why the sayer he opened with the prayer


for to relax myself my feet these things these old things again they are my only friends they


are my hands they are good for nothing but tapping tapping tapping away at the floor for


a hardwood minotaur carved from the treetrunk raping me at chess, I wouldn't call it a match

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