You are indeed the whole

You are indeed the whole idea. No hailing paper tells your message like a crumpled island in wonder's hand. Black anger prints the book of books out of your only eye. I'm passing out its warm life in scowling tales called windows; they won't leave you changed. Tomorrow gone, you'll reach the long way, your lips on instruments send yearning forms out to relief. I strain my nature from the inside with arousing razors shamed, as consul keep. Too right! I think I'm smart; I find I'm stuck at chance's door. Something in the corner of this map is proof of friction, making smoke of motionless thought; it speaks from deep retreat. In handmaid underwear it unlocks tears thrown down before they hit the floor. Their meaning is beyond the call that walks in fear: this way to wisdom; that world is burning shades. Now we are broken from the law our meals are swallowed under ashes, stood in offices in cities dead from purses up. We carry arms of written winds without reality's black text of mannered causes. They revolve around sunbeams like Sirian globes of denial; they guard us from reasoning men with each belief pleased, alive stone. Then kindness for sciences that, find ribbons of life in a plot-loaded surface, of faults rented daily for spite.

Paradise produces hallucinatory castles

Paradise produces hallucinatory castles. Inside, crowds dazzled recall fragments of bites at vastness pierced by feverish swords now underfoot. Jugglers lean into hyena's mouths, their blood turned into thin lines of pale want, expectant nets of moment. Silence metaphors without a name, begging ears to father feelings dredged through old tights, stinking with the illusion of accident. Poor natives analyzed upon emotion's face like nervous guides that know not well they know.

The pen is touching time

The pen is touching time. Quick! Caresses Ubu rocket, honours gods' looks, cultures man machine christ, stamp that bad line money me. Big time lunch time top gun, pause: I tell you look you look, real safe, at war. With censored force you plan your plan to save communication's sweet awards, don't seem all that fulfilled. We own a thing we bought. I did believe it possible to root the habit-forming instance in authentic thought enjoyed as normal, like: "I look like I would long after the love face started" through mazes signed over to social advances; through movements turned filthy and grey in becoming preserved at a place lost to early caution. It's feeling time: I turn piss to lines of steam madness; I use these magical powers beyond thought; in woody reinforcements: stewed intuition; strangled tones. Morning happens when the Doctor faces aspirant vitamin smile injection labour; waiting to visit beauty; carving speeches from tension trash white bone. Only fear can follow hope, less sense returns.