9:18:08

9:18:08- My cock has a photographic memory, it's name is Martin and it lives on a Rabbit Farm in the rural Czech Republic, it is, a rooster; inandofitself. I traveled North to conquest the Pseudo-E sky and inhibit myself on the lawns of Banks & Alano. The day, if it were a subject of conversation, was filled with single set ear pieces, bright-eyed story telling sequences of gasoline dreams, on the sidewalks of my Portuguese fore-fathers. It wasn't that, but instead was a reference to that, the fore-fathers that is.

I am a shouted whisper in the dark, from one friend to another in corduroy Autumn. Plain train automobile pajamas. I like the flavors, I like their temperatures, the way they feel twisted around the skin, and how they keep me at attention; nothing worse than being bored. It's not that the night was young, but rather that the children were trying to sleep, and plastic masked faces interrupt card-carrying storytellers so often it becomes a treacherous feet to eat at cardboard boxes and homework floats.

Can your boats
on the mountaintops
be the, tip of the tongues
you write your names in
with the inks from your
under legs?
the crab backing
on the
cardboard
exfoliants
by the bathroom trashcan
in the space between the
toilet and the wall.

Will the tomorrow
of your prison brick
be the, candy dance, implore it now, 
quite like the shadows of a 
chiseled belt of sand
on the wrist
sentenced to a life
of elevator rides
and scarves.

The mice
and
their heart attacks.
written on the walls
written on the walls.

Breakfast, is a waist of time
like the spurious conjugations growing
in the opaque pants pockets
of a genius fit.
Screaming, laughing, fucking, in
the hollow stare
of the moth cloud, 
in adoration of us all.

9:18:08- Welcome to the Kingdom of Slay. The faint sense of virile strength embedded on the hands today. Blood on the casket weave trickles heavily from the teeth, and the voice of the undergrowth trails off into the streets. My voice is closed-caption. My extrovert facade is intellectual, collapsible but I point out the differences for your anger to be a part of things that I wish upon a capsule of a substance you use to disappear from me. I am but a man, a child like a boy, and the notes of my substance are more than you can handle, so don't despair while we tourniquet ourselves in the words that force our tongues to close the mouths of our undiscoverable secret telling ear to ear in busy places while mission statements are the mending connections to the things that we're learning most about each other. I am late to the bridle.

9:18:08- 8:50p.m. The points of my return. To society or the analytical moment where my dead eyes fall on the strange black entanglements which capture me like the urn between my legs burying fascination within the facets of my strange infatuation with sequences. I can't wait for the treason. i be a liquidated entrance, the clause, a sent reminder to a song that I play over and over and over again so as to disappear in the stale abyss of featurettes I call my life. My breath is the memory of daggers gone and dead. By these hands of mine filled with piety and strength today, bare knuckled braggarts of the pestilent eve.

Oh, how the beasts
squawk and toddle
tip-toeing over 
cement factories, in the prurient moonlight.
Watch them in their silks and tapestries of the brain
carrying on in quids and cynicisms.
Their electric mouths beckoning out
to the folds of the sheath
its lines withdrawn and aching nurture
there on the street
where my pupils learn to watch them pass.

9:18:08- 9:35p.m. My sheriff love is profuse. Like the diligent escape plans I execute constantly. Were I the piece of gum which beds itself to your inner-gum so well, you might say I'm an adverb for association, but it is my word which heals the head, my name which blinds your eyes, my lungs which steal the voice from out your lips. Forgetting about the 2nd grade my colors are more than a million.

The State of Gein. Hunger much more than verb to the raise, the rise is more clearly than the binding which struggles to overcome the cryptic additives, an accent on the skin towards a belt of leather which wears itself so surreptitiously it might be called a State.