its fortunate im a virtuoso at breaking down my mind or else i wouldve lost it
i break my mind into borax and hinnies and move things from here to here with the power of hoof
to die or to die or to die or to die
the coward dies only once while a coward dies a thousand times a day
the brave died long before they existed and the coward who dies only once is a boring coward
the faculty of the imagination in which anarchy and art are students and the poofessors everything is a faculty of death and those who would create greet the morning with itineraries of obliterations
i loved her because more than anyone else she knew best how to kindly and wholly annihilate me
a priest of death and a mogul of disappearance
a morass of more asses distemper dismembers and veps became avocets phalaropes coursers and curlews and if i have to speak my languages directly in that method of directness that speaks only indirectly to obscure the structures that speak the language of dominance directly for you i would like to speak of debt
det debt or dis debt?
dis is debt and debt is dis
i use trophic cascade in my wishwasher to clean my haberdines
though i prefer catatonic tropicana im always open to overfishing
deaths the new life and i propel through the temple like an oleaginous oracle thats being eaten by its patabase
id like to redeem myself but ive lost my selves and deems
losings a technique the forensic poet uses to gain in the knowledge thats not
im friable and while watching game of kolophonia on the ulexite the other night my mask slips and i cum on my lips like a habitual pun braying on her knees to the lovergod of stone
im lucky im a grandiissimo at losing my mind or else it would have broken
the art of losing isnt hard to master
the art of musing can be hard to luster
ive finished slaughtering cleaning and devouring the sea cucumbers and now i dont have anything to do
not having anything to dos the same as having something or many things to do in that having the not having gives having a doing of many mani haves
different tombstones different centuries
different tune tomes different cemeteries
queues cumber death so i line up in loss
its nice of the sun to come out and shine on all the losers
clouds line my day like mascara and who would stack the ducks against me
body is my refuse and amaranth
a very absent kelp in rubble
therefore we will fear that well be removed
and the gadgets be carried into the midst of the sea
the phrase without moor
rāstra without fāta
ive lost the day like lilypops
and wander in florescent neverglades
like ducksicles
and foplings
minds over there
with canticles of cunnilingus
its stover bare
alongside solfeggios of fellatio
find clover lairs
for humps of humming
tits hover where?
my wyrms aneeding forage
we shed minds like orvets and ride our sporty deaths along the day
cum musking luv into the skummet of our pseudosquamic ways
