so
visual those deaths so skinny his wine such gulps for vanity. at touches or
remorse if but we presumed correctly. by false dreams by rich deception a bit
amazed at what’s happening to Britney. this aged passion such caged passion, if
but more to announce a little. I was a kid then, or a growing thicket, as
tolerated by intolerance. I was wilder then, I yelled back when, it was crazy
to become silent. but identity in a jug or pills as character or drugs raw
enough to discount morals. so softer she was, so distorted over ethics so
ashamed but still revving. too much to assume if but goodness while different
strokes for dependent souls. rich means appreciative—of those nuances—where others
find them as irritants. so, a woman in a million women, a man adores a million
screams, while others run faster to get away. “to hell with it. he hasn’t said
much. we must do for power.” by silent worry by scary dreams or nightmares wide
awake. the cut of the bone those telephone wires as accursed for a glance. the
noose of his life the fury in his bed the mechanics he desires. a soul at
deliverance a soul changing where it’s hard to please old company. to
manipulate, to tease realities, while demanding something irregular. those
bottles stacking or recycled women where a soul is running his deserts. abused
or laughing silent or loud or in-between riding a parachute. so close, we choir
our guts. so enlove we picture our wealth. while watching too closely angers.
such a wanderlust such an echo where loving used to feel so natural!
