REDWIT
There we were crafting bulges -
and red hair is white stars
red stars is river mold - I dip my hair in
ox blood and whip cobblers to mate
the environment is a bright illness for
using delicate and spread like no fat
breads like a moaning. Wheres my favorite
teat. Wheres my watch milker. I stunned as
a frozen bee and bridging the divide between
old snakes and brown snakes. thats where I put
you in the power cistern, glowing and fertile,
whisk you about and spill management into
hideout level rage. my thistle watcher is a little
curse, and stores enemies in my gullet - brittle
and suppurate is the mt. and storing a grape
matches wit to toe with stolen brows - if not
dream house dream cone and still living might
avoid leaving think to lighter gifts. and almost
grave hours reach brink. waiting for sour beach muscle
slides down my throat. youve gilded everything you could
and so now are lipless and cold. cow scurfy. grip butt. something
like that can remember snow memory, and herons night.
immediate and spelled, a gopher rips into hero light and
quickens plants. sea plants violence. and dove. its boot is
almost quilted. its boot windows into roseate chorus, singing ovals
attached to the back. I pry from the onyx. I pry from the grass rocks
and still I am thirty wiggling fingers rolling into my clocks. how have
you gone so long without itching? with your fuzzy clock hat? with the edge
of the mountain growing into your emotions? taking forceful thrusts at your emotion?
stay away. grow litters. keep them safe. nothing will be crazy.