It was early, on with coriander fetters that the real work began, aloof, pitchers, mewling and drafts -
I gloved a little passing, and supped flowers from the earth
and crowded out all the golds and pewters
tipping, it spread a long brick until brick smelt hold,
I held nothing to the bread of alders, and
spit loosely, gripped and slipping into the furrows of
the beargrass, handling a puke of lavender cheapness,
and found limited bias - If thats the pearl, then thats
the pearl. Its holding all my thought.
And so quips divide churlishly in, the snow was goo by winds account,
and lips fed krill no surely wiccan fire, and wept, no sure bled till that ones over,
and did I think I could survive? Sure. There was nothing molting at the time.
this flute in case went away, and elves corralled it, spittling.
maybe the voice of it was an accident. and still some burls want it that way.
I gripping the mossy, the mossys film, the georgic mount, and tongue,
theres not a lot that would envelop me still.
not until I receive the right burn -
open, casket, and toil like a vine.
vine bled, no parsimony, and chip while not ovary still,
creeps too noisy, and livid mound was my first idea,
still...I mostly breathe whip, and greatly forested tunnel is the
vocal in bounce, the bounce in forgery guild and strap. I chilled
too hard, mother, I chilled and scraped my knee, I chilled
a lippy on my screech - this is the rage of the pearl.
and what invitation for passion flowers, undecided coils ripping a flute into
james and kiss, blanched, governor, up and putrid.
mister, its not the blood unicorn, not at all. Its defiant and palace.
and still a fecund beat to recompense with a little minced, wicker pulled
random into cistern in silifke, breaded. in terms of these thoughts its even more
calf than you thought - a dope slick caviar -
if I was raised on an orchid I would die
were going to show you the third, and stilled, you will listen snow to the
death rattle.