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funny-upset-clown · 19 days

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FOH pizza poet @ night

The fight plays out back and forth behind the eyelids.

Cut the pizza. It spins on a metal tray perfectly careful balance nothing falls off, cut the pizza in half press down hard to the dry part tear the crust the fight plays out he says, they say, theres a silence and a disgust cut the halves in half then cut the quarters in half, tear the crust with gloved hands, dont cut any finger, the fight is not really occurring in bed before sleep no fight exactly like the one that occurs in the reactive memory has ever totally been had but fights are everywhere like cheese or rain in clouds clouds in chicago on cloudy days where rain falls fights make lovers old and fat. The metal tray spins into coolness, the condomed hand is burnt and torn. Pull the slice from its family and throw it on a plate where it will pollock paper with gray dew or splitting ribbons of lactose Leaving a heave the space between the retort bloats The fight drones it says What a blank says Why it is a fight without hands it is a fight like a rolling knife and dry tare. Eyes crossed blue in vertigo a fight exhales and migrinatic blankets shallow the gut lifting air..

#words words words #poetry #spilled thoughts #prose #journal #spilled ink #poem #literature #poets on tumblr #thoughts #words #spilled poetry #original post

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funny-upset-clown · 1 month

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The rules are not tirelessly questioned in dreams. God is God.

#words words words #poetry #spilled thoughts #prose #journal #spilled ink #surrealism #dreams #writers

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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Springing With Land Things at the End of Us

I knew of your fall from grace, and confessed to my knowing with lighter fluid in my purse.

It was my motivation to expose your brutal methods of Love to the mouths of the earth. They croak open and grab your misdeeds by the neck. Carnivorous flowers lick the dirt off your hands to the bone while from the soil canines emerge glinting in the sun of your magnificent depravity, for it is magnificent, and shine it does; your outpouring curse. I almost refrain.

Then I recognize the gentle stink of God at my side because he is. God is on my side in all matters of revenge. God has asserted his place at my side even as I have plunged below innocence for the purpose of discrediting your alliance with all the world's tender offers.

We, together renounce you from the empire of ardor. We perceive you as you are in the dark.

I make a fire by lake michigan.

I build a mound from molder, sweet memories mutated into muddied fuck juice and ruptured bruise, I set fire to the shit you gave me in good conscious. I burn the evidence of what falls short at rectifying you.

I am simple when I collaborate with harsh elements. Turning a bottle of white wine upside down into my mouth here and there, I dance around the smelly purple flames in pill blue tights and kitten heels, I spit on the black left of it all- it sparks, I giggle. I am liquor, I am hate, I am prayer, I am the proof of your ash.

I do not lose my balance over the sand, God is on my side.

The ink lake, horizon-side, bleeds up the sky, over my head, beyond the blooming trees, falling behind the jagged Chicago skyline, twinkling.

Birds chirp, their eyes have never been so wide as when they see me spray the flame with butane. They know it is the image of me gutting myself and feeling nothing. I do say goodbye as I let the rest of your memory lay upon the waters, moving into unidentified thing-ness.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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cant write so I write

(When I write I feel like it is the first time I have ever written, every word evades me and turns into a monster that is thorny and upset and I soon cannot hear what it is I may have set out to convey.)

I cannot say for sure if I have been trying to evade how I feel, but I know for certain that I am feeling. I feel the sensation of crying like vomit before I drop a single tear, I feel angry the way it seems toddlers are with that smushed look on their face.

I am like a child. A child born of a dead thing and the cadaver that bore.

It is because almost exactly, that the romance once illuminating the world around me, has fallen like a slip right through the crust of the earth, and slowly, angelically, I experience this new sense of romance, so strange to me, in the laughing and quietness of the people and in the person I am, apart from what I am. What had once been to me like the content of romance and infatuation, is now only comparable to the hallucinatory glimmer of useless love. It is not a drop in the stomach like the boring feeling of weeping, it is not the twisted pull of lust, or the migraine of curiosity, it is flat and gone in a second and very much like blood. I never seek it out. I seek out the things that move my body to and from satiety, I follow the path to writhing and in least expected moments I stop in the presence of the world, and feel it cooking me, and feel it seeing me, and feel its blithe emancipation from me. I think of my coworkers and the coming and going of their beautiful eyes. I think of the needs I have tied to people who kiss me and tell me good girl or good boy. They make me think of finitudes in a split second and I blink, turn and take the next step which makes me a part of it all.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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man placed before me a tall opulent church

god placed before me- under a cloud of undulating blue feathers- a hawk with a pigeon in its claws.

When I was a kid i jumped out the window on christmas eve and walked a few blocks down to his parked car. I got in and he drove me to the prettiest church in downtown. there was a midnight service which radiated out large windows melodys and boring candlelight striking me with perverse power. I had power over the church and power over a man’s desire and power over my weakening virtue and mounding fear. He could kill me in seconds, i held that truth like a lonely cock- tear stained and begging. If i was dead, his desire would still be stuck in me, I would still own it. I felt and knew this bonedeep with childlike obedience, the way one is obedient to truths like gravity.

We walked into that church and sat on a pew in the back. The room stretched all the way to golden daylight packed with the smell and bodies of sagging pious life. I felt his erection in the dense air and put my feather-like, child hand on his thigh just before the tip of his crime, with motherly acceptance. That is when I sealed his death, and my murderous intent.

I carried the books he handed off, my bones thin and long enduring and craving for the glory of strain. He placed another novel on my head and told me to stand up straight. He placed a novel on my head and told me to look forward to death. He placed a novel on my head and motioned for my servitude. He placed a novel on my crotch and said shove it in you and marvel at the blood.

I learnt the power of a hairless cunt and boneless legs. We wandered in the tunnels of an abandoned university, he pushed my dissolving frame against the pinch of a wall and put his salamander fingers inside the nervous leak of a mouth. If I uttered a sound it would stutter but I was like a mountainside rock against a molten arrow- silent and melting- not before becoming red as chemically possible.

He motioned to a thin metal locker, sky blue and lockless, I crawled inside and he jammed it shut. Light spread from the small slits. My bones began bruising and I started to choke on my own CO2. It was night sky black when I slammed my hand against the rattling frames, when I begged him to let me out, when I began seeing the fallacy of my power, when I knew instead that I wanted to live.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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EROS OBJECT

Kiss me with graces, and glances, and gay arrangements.

I hole up in my relief for you. For you i remove just my sex, and become it-- betraying my hands, my eyes, i become your compulsion.

I stretch the small opening of myself like a hide to your metal bed with freezing wire, lillylike it sheds new, new, new, dew with leopard like confessions and poppy-patterned delights.

You and I are face to face yet you recognize I am without expression, teeth, ears.

When you finish I do not regain myself, my arms- no- I am waiting in that state for your skin again, strung tight and single watching your body like a hawk. Meanwhile, that shape that is muscling into a beg is my body, begging is all of my adoration for us two at once. All of me is located at the treacherous split of my thighs, i swallow you up in a soaring heat, whistling up your spine, nuzzling into nothing.

As soon as I entirely become an object, I excel and surpass myself. I double into the choking yo-yo, the kinetic pistol. Then again, the hand holding the pistol, again- the darting eyes steadying the hand, again- the spared blood. In your hands I feel like a toy, but in the backside of our joy is my sunken and concealed ammunition, the fluid of my drive. I bring you inside out, I raise your heart, your breath.

I gain freedom when this farce of me is still, and cut and spread on a bed of fallacies. This strange organ I devolve into, is one that is inside and out, for even when I am passive, even in my degradation, i am angelic in complexity, and just as unfathomably beautiful, because in me is the hidden source of your completion, idle.

These secrets do not derive from an interior place or are corporeal through flemish words. Violence will not dispell the sacred bond of my unknown capacity into the hands of blind lust. For you to even bring my inside out, what once was not seen that is then exposed, you will not have me then, for that unknown piece will jump to each place you cannot reach until it is your very self you must disembowel. Even then. I surpass every object, finding myself in the atomic ransack of our parts, finding my trace in the debris of immanence interrupted. sitting like a seed in your chemical memory, your ejaculation is mine.

But I am just a hole.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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hatred and sentiment

I could feel a vestige of what once was his kiss.

I could feel those permanently pursed lips die in each place where my nerve intersects with my joint, dangerously and buzzing incredibly unto looseness. I will reckon with my empty gaps as my toes overlap in morose completions again and again in seconds. I finish, covered in years, i am done crying.

There in my knuckle, his mouth dissolved, reappearing now with tentative persistence as a picture I blink into bigness, it grows in brightness and strikes me in hot rounded blows till I am flat flat flat, and whorish, stupidly I AM HIS. I bite my fist and recall the first birth of a lifetime of tender gestures. I whistle out my love hole the most pathetic ode id ever heard, I whistle dry, I forget whose I am and retaliate without a head.

When I am part lizard I plan to acquire a large knife. When I face him again and await for the lunge within the thick of my face; a devil wave of blood. Instead of swallowing that browning spit, I will take his neck once and for all and in between precise slashes I will reveal to him my tears. When he milked the stars and injected me with their loss, I will let that spray him and soften the crimson, he will briefly see in my eyes the love I forbid him to live with, he will inhale once more and then he will be the problem of time.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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inertia conceiving vertigo

youtube

I throw my headback and feel my mountainrange of stranglings. A throat steep and bumpy.

I woke up 5 seconds ago inside a body that stinks of age. I allow her life only in the second we see eachother in the mirror. She is a rodent and her face is constantly in the way of my beauty.

The sky is outside moaning, my neighbors wall blocks my window- I check the time on my phone - I check the weather on my phone - I check the date on my phone, My finger flings through the worlds images with wasp wings, its growing a brain the size of a seed the seeds roots are crawling, rotting up my nerves. I forget about my pussy, I forget about my belly and my baby brother. I forget the feeling of walking outside in a sundress, the warm breeze coming up between my legs and the short hairs buzzing into action like licks of fire. I forget the velvet touch of leaves torn between nervous fingers during first dates. I forget the lulling virus of liquor.

I am with my room like a tumor, the ceiling resistant to prayer, I’d think, If I tried to pray. I decide I’ll pray tonight and look at the cieling, disregarding the greige color used by every landlord in north western chicago neighborhoods, I decide I’ll pray, not on my knees, on my back before bed. I’ll ask god to make me skinnier, I’ll ask god to send me a gaurdian angel that wishes to seize a body to fix, and live inside, and utilize each precious second of its warmth for A precious purpose.

My toes will almost begin to recall the footing of the first dance i ever learned, the one my grandpa taught me, i’ll turn and my breath will break free in a melodious exit out the souls of my feet advancing as a flock of chiffon walzes. They tug on the eyes of the room the way the ass of an angel would under spotlight. That levity from me and not me at all.

My body is stone when I watch the smoke leave my sagging mouth and each moment after. I cut myself head to hips to arrange the night rightly for dreaming. Any dry stomaches turn.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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no title

it feels soft, not like anything you can touch, or the gentle hand that touches you. the feel of resignation is like the velvet brush of air running into your body, souring into breath until leaping out your face. The satin of nothing more.

nodding, i take in this posture- improbable to loosen. learning something new with my entire body. a lame leaving. i can only lick my lips , tussle with heartache, bleed clear bloated air, and wait. turn the word inside out. arrive. land. again, probably.

still questioning the loneliness, the failure of gratitude. never questioning the plummet of the bluffing ego as it slips away with the rest. I see the backside of snow, of people, of air and laughter. I notice traces of poison. And with nothing to recall me except love, I dive deeper, like a plastic scientist on all fours, pointing to things, remarking to myself.

#words words words #poetry #spilled thoughts #prose #journal #spilled ink #poem #literature #poets on tumblr #thoughts #words #spilled poetry #original post #antonin artaud #georges bataille #anais nin #marguerite duras #writers

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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melody of erosion

The storm is rolling in and the roof of my mouth is souring more everyday. My eyes are burning too.

I notice the weight of snowflakes when they fall effortlessly in dying populations. I recall the skin of an old lover. A common love for me even now, is that old love that rots on my everyday skin.

Im blowing bubbles into the air from my ears, floating in a barrier are the soft voices from warmer days.

I am on a liquid tour, witnessing evaporation in the hour of my languid night.

I lick my dried lips and excuse sick fantasies. They come again. I excuse them more. Growing sicker each time, more tired, more malnourished. I crave iron. The echo of its snap. I consider setting fire to promise, watching it change the PH of the earth with obsidian feathers, watching it exhale into the air, becoming that one thing that is always there. Then I could crawl as I know I am meant, hands and knees and dirt, seeing the beauty of a speculated joy as ashes in the see-through sky, and allow myself nothing of it.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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Write everyday, and that will be good enough.

I ripped myself from my cycle, from the sheets, the burning candle; cackling, waning, from the pale window side and the brownie pan, from the sulking desk, the blackening curtain that once smelled of turmeric and a spring dawn.

On the bus I felt the eyes and fumes of strangers, I felt winter loosening into its skin, the bus halt, go, halt, twist, accumulating hot air. I did not think of anything, nothing I can remember now, except that one mantra I shall not refuse:

I must become an acquaintance to that which passes through me and circles back, hour to hour, the pang of lost love, the image of love in a person who is now lost totally, or even the sneeze of peace, the forgiving hello of my life's image: multi-florescent and whole.

I cannot get out of my head the fear of what alienation cumulatively does to me. I cannot quite pinpoint the ideal exodus of my isolation. I imagine myself surrounded by church bells, I imagine myself grinning at climax - covered in saliva and sunrays, I imagine the lullaby that is pure curiosity as it butters my nerves with the first phrase of mystery. I imagine myself and a flower alone considering the sound. I imagine falling in love over and over again.

Perhaps I imagine being more open to the sensation of love wherever it may take me.

That is the secret of the time I was once most happy.

To recall that security, is to outline its absence in me now. I breathe in.

Sitting at the cafe where I will be reading poetry in a few weeks. I cannot afford a refill on my tea. The street lamps just turned on and the sky has shifted from a blinding pale gray to a shadowed cerulean that peels my very heart from me and it is just 4:40 in the afternoon. As for the hunger, I don't feel it in my stomach, I feel it in my lips and my spine, now in my nose with the whiff of a stew being boiled in the back. I wrap my thin sweatshirt around my bound torso and adjust my glasses, the window glass gets thinner and my fingers jump over the keys- broken by chill. I consider commuting home, I consider the waiting and shivering. I consider passing groups of friends and lovers seen through restaurant windows, feasting and laughing, I consider the light in eyes that will not look my way. I consider the jealousy and the building starvation. I also consider waiting here, writing here, then reading. Finding a way to resource any warmth, drinking the free water, my right leg crossed over my left swaying weakly and melodiously. Waiting until Coles opens. I wouldn't buy a beer. If I did it would fill me up like a meal and I'd feel warm for a moment. I consider being there, no money in my pocket, nothing to fall back on except the single day bus pass I dropped half of all my money on.

I consider my options.

I could steal again. I'd steal a candle and a hot drink.

I think about A and flinch to my surprise. A song plays that reminds me of when they bought me a bouquet of marigolds from out the car window on my birthday.

I imagine them walking in through the jingling door and feeling okay. I imagine their warm hands falling all around mine

and now the cold is becoming too much to bear.

The sky now looks like an oil spill in ocean waters. The door jingles, the train roars, my nipples get cold, my foot starts shaking faster. I don't need anybody to look at me, no I do not. All of this because I am practically nothing at all, especially as long as I am alive, and this is not to rouse despair.

It is now 5pm, and I will prepare myself to find something new. I just have to gnaw the sting of wind and the blow of hunger.

I am content to have eyes, I will record for this sake, for the sake of writing just to write everyday.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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Lingerer

Cannot contain the mystery of the loss that does not fade, but moves with me in the direction of my growth. It is strange to consider that I may have to befriend my greatest discomfort, however even that proposition is more than any other relief. This facade I have owned like a kicked dog, which I have label me as a thing at all: one which can come and go from what has changed me, this facade blows like gas into air when day after day I notice a familiar pain, the 6 foot trip, the sudden failure of resistance to memory, and day after day the false thing of me is unprepared and furious.

I loosely grip the knowledge that it would be wise to acquaint myself with the loss I must own. For as long as I continue to feel, I will remember what it is I will never feel again.

To know this would even have me better prepared to notice what is new that I should be refreshed to be filled with. Hope is a fish, held in minute intervals, which will whisper to me a fast fading anecdote- a prayer to nurse with all my living energy. When it writhes and escapes to the wide sea where it belongs, I write this note down, so as to not forget its mandatory blessing, for it is a miracle at all each time I squeeze its slippery scales, and for a moment ascertain angelic brutality.

Tonight I have been operated on by guardian-like lightning, adding to me spores of sense, coated in embryo, patterned like a new species, blinding like the melancholic anchor of extinct furs. It drives me to write:

I shall learn to love what degrades all I have known, I shall learn to love the confused work of witnessing my losses, I shall learn to love what kills me, otherwise I cannot live, and I will always, one day, die.

I name my facade and wish to walk with it no longer. It is tired and beaten, and has been confounded by who created and loved it most.

How soft am I now, as I banish my vast refusal?

How long will it really take to be without false tools?

Wishing the fish well, I reluctantly move toward sleep, bare, hopeless, but reasonably certain I will come upon something again to direct my faith in the impetus of each new sun, and cement my knowledge of its eventual leaving. Even the sun does not linger.

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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I am a cold mother to my life,

The room I'm in sulks in every direction, and I feel the presence of true resignation like a globe tearing my cogs. I taste the barb.

I am so soft, failing in the face of what had once weakened me that returns in the form of misguided reflections. There are things I cannot forgive, I learn what these things are everyday. I am passive to them, except in my forgiveness. I will grin, I will allow it, but hate will grow in me like a destination. I fear the falling place.

There are beautiful things too, but behave with windlike brevity, while the land beneath it is moved and forgetful. The land is the bottom line.

I trace beauty hoping to know it, but the mind that makes it so is instead partial to the strange surroundings. Heavy, magnetic, is my fixed confusion.

I seek relief.

A memory slants me to the side of my life when I remark, I was happy going down this street. I have been happy going down this street.

And after all this, what do I want to write about?

A bill grows wings and flies past my window like a freakish snow flake that I pretend I do not see, then at the mirror I assess what I do not recognize, I refuse a tear. I beam forward from my sleep with an idiotic glow of resurrection, and grin like a badger at the spinning sun. Epochs of memory grow in my lymphs. Therefore I cannot set flow all I have come to know. The suffering of such atrophy is something I could not bring to words.

#prose #words words words

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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Write, Lull, Exhaust

My spine twists like a hook into the base of my soft little brain, till I can taste the bone that retaliates me. I think only of one rage as I lay politely under newly changed sheets. I think of the forms in which I reject my feeling, and so I discern nothing except the thought keeping time on that droning hate- it sounds like a clock going backwards. I write to exhaust myself and yet the hatred keeps me up, the curiosity rouses me, the regret motivates me.

I could be magnificent in the moment of my retaliation, and in the end I would be a beautiful fool. To be a fool is to taste the laughter of others in your mouth. Thinking of it now allows me to recall a wildly powerful nausea. For I have tasted the relief of others in my mouth that has cost me my sanity, the memory of which resounds in me like utter pain.

I try to reposition my posture, to treat my twisting back like a child that kicks back, I try to comfort my body as it wails silently to seek all that has been unseen and unsaid in the name of love. I spit on the word, eyeing it like a wishbone. The pieces look yellowed and frail after I reduce it to splinters under deranged stomping.

#poetry #poems #prose #words words words

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funny-upset-clown · 2 months

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Kid Room

I cannot tend to myself at this moment, I can hardly smell myself. The room i'm in smells like the rotting of lifeless objects, the chemistry of their withering sprouts in the air a sour symphony in dry parcels that seed the room with a presence of perpetual color and age- and the absence of me, as i am nothing to those which dominate my childhood room. I gargle and await a sugar plum fairy to whistle in my ear a hard to hear sopranic alarm, I wait to be cracked like an egg.

I cannot tend to the wishy washy apparitions, I cannot withstand that their strength is greater than me to the bone, especially since they do as they please, existing freely, not just in my mind but in the stain of my returning old life, while I hesitate even to breathe it in- that smell of their effortless lifting. Their excessive particulation, their arrogant release. I hesitate, confined to my hands in comparative atrophy, my still as stick flesh.

I love my old books reluctantly, I regret that I do not bleed into the sheets of my teenage years knowingly, I squirm in my unbreakable hesitation to breathe in the dust which has collected over lost sensibilities.

Being like a passing boat, I cannot stop at every miracle risking my momentum in the arbitrary tide. But I wish that I could, and that I did not relate to a boat. So I write just to write and honestly say I cannot tend to myself wholly at this moment.

Knowing that since I cannot find the will, I will move through this room as less and less of a person until the dust sets into the core of things and there will only be that sour air from which to divulge what once was. The air will hit me like a sandstorm everytime I open the door, and squinting, I will recognize nothing, except the plunge of difference.

Trout sits on the rock of my stomach and a chill keeps its soft lather on my skin. I reckon tomorrow I’ll wake up to the feeling of difference, noticing it even in that briney sunrise that floats through my unchanged windowpane. I’ll notice that I do not take it in, I’ll notice my cold, steel gaze.

I finally give in to the sheets, maintaining myself at the edge of the bed, making space for the gray angels of age, or something. Maybe I keep myself at the leaving-edge of the bed so I can mimic my own, the one in Chicago that barely fits my lover and I when we lay on our side. I could recall what has taken place on this old mattress, now in the moment of its rebirth, but what good would it be? I could recall crying spells at 14, I could retrace the fog of an old lover, I could try and remember where I found that crocheted blanket that hangs at the foot. What good would it do?

Instead, it would be magnificent to bleed unbridled over that which is becoming memory, harder and harder to bear.

How courageous my blithe resynthesis could be, what levity would grace my shoulders?

Perhaps then, in the morning, when the New Mexico sun comes in, I will crack, but not in order to account for my permeability with the dust, but to add the stain of fresher yolk. I am armored afterall and I have attained the hard sensibility of fight such that I may release the cannons of my change upon all that has made me, flinching all the way, but at last not shrinking.

I gather myself and plunge myself into this strange world, letting ghosts smell me, me, the me now, and now, welcoming the contagious molder of my lost times. Oh that catatonic sour. I hush the trout, and get up once more this evening to piss.

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funny-upset-clown · 9 months

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end of senseless sestina

The feeling I get, this rush of being stripped of everything, facing all the boundaries of my finitude, it's nothing less than pleasant. And this choking I speak of, yes the horrible kind, the ring around the neck asphyxiation kind, is it so wrong for me to say it is the only embrace in my life that is really, I mean truly, painless. One day I’ll open up like a bomb and you’ll see what led me here; drunk and hallucinating and you will renounce the word naive.

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funny-upset-clown · 9 months

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heaven crowed

a Lazar pink and plume, woke

the reek on the opposite room

i am hung like a horse on the first of june 23

when hanging means more than it ever has

by a thread

i hand sew pillows into an asphalt rage with a weak thread

licking someone else’s buttermilk off of an empty stage

i’d be lieing for a living if people wanted to read my writing

there’s a sunning sun that doesn’t stop whining

on the first of june i have a panic attack

after setting fire to the kid in the mirror

the child bride flushing Xanax with Perrier to hush good warnings

riding the dong plane to a nowhere land where kisses are sealed with a blister

tender, hot and full is the meeting place of perversion and malady

i was so in love longer ago than i’d care to admit

to a thing which loved me hard in return

and know i think of it all like the bone sharp quartering of the now dead lover i was so i glare at her corpse like she is the fat biting fly of each summer day and she beats back loader than my deaf plead with a clumsy siren

she steals my breath with her gore and still bleeds off the page to I can’t say where.

i can say that her memories are flaking off of her brittle hair and hissing out of her bloated gut, that begging sloth, that precious vacancy, that precious precious vacancy.

heaven crows

counting the toes as they turn grey

redwoods creek in salt heavy dreams of the fantasies never reaped

silly prey

Brutish, mesmerized in a stomach blue

longways bones for pews

lit on fire

Now the charcoal rain spins hexagonal round the gagging bird , loveless

the fig caught in its gullet , loveless

the fig squeezed, siezes out seeds , loveless

and ridiculing fertile ground , loveless

and the siren sounds

the wolves come

And some dead tarnish is lain over someone’s name

in bitter tone under soft green rain

how come i cannot even say his name

silly prey

and now nothing nothing nothing is the same

a choking matter

The conniving nature

seed

flung

twisted reed breaking plead

unsat like mist

but flat

and i will never be that precious that whole that dirty

i will never be so vacant and so saved

i will never be so his

telephone lines tug themselves to the mud across america in the event of a terrestrial storm

figs lose taste but trees grow like flames in the west

june 23

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