Tuesday, May 6, 2014

The Scare: That's a rap

This Page, I'm finally meeting it eye to eye on a requisite nightmare. Hell En Isma Valore.  I don't know what to say.  I want to appreciate life in all of beauteous boundaries, which aren't really there.  Like a child in a play ground,
a sale ground,
selling their power their prayer, their they're they are.
Prescriptionists write prescription of lifetimes unburling like a Japanese fan in a normal distribution.
I'm distributed,
in urban outfitters, in underground magazines, in the back of the party, in your pants, in your mind, in your, you know
spirit. What is eternity when there is no end to define it? I wonder of the infinite. 
When such an acute microorganism is the trigger on a vicious clock,
time and space, death and spaghettification of my process modification.  Why ask when I tell.
The rapture called it said hello to my dreams, spoiled me and left my body
beautifully wrapped in the whispers of opportunity and depravity.  I call for the taxi
the one where the guy sells tigers for a living so I can whisper a tell about his nice academic woman
of the 1800s, Oscar Wilde, polio victims and 25 year survivors
of HIV being licked like a dog, like a dying saint of Spanish moss and forestry.
Follow the horses into the burning lake, become a nucleator, instantly freeze, expand, slow
deepen my voice and accentuate my rhythm, devide and conquer through submission
the space between my self and other. 
I don't know flow but I feel these words are my brothers.

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