Topic: Biting Hard | |
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The lens is inverted,
in my eyes, behind them... my stamp, watermark. The inheritance of my birth. The stained glass of my window where shards swim like sharks, and rods and orange cones plaster directions back to my brain, floating in cheap wine or blood when I've had too much cheap wine. Skin the sun, piss on the stars, the moon... "my love..." Whatever. Pull down the streetlights, strap them to the back of the car. And "Just Try" painted on the back windshield, we go cruising down the (insert real highway name) and for a moment we were whatever. Bury the constellations in a box made out of thorn bushes and cheap metaphors, the kind of metaphors you can barely smoke are barely inhalable, sell for a dollar fifty at some shady liquor store. Keep them in a box, rename them, **** up every astrologer's year make them rewrite their columns question their gods sexuality tax attorney. Ripen the winter. The south has... become exhausted of us. It doesn't want us. Our skin is tree bark now enduring cold sweating snow... repeated snow non-unique snow. Our skin is stretched masks and television commercials for puns that sell poisons. Puns that sell poisons, ripen the winter. And bury the constellations, skin the sun. So many days under dead grass, scratching, but... one thousand tallies scratched in the chalkboard faces burnt into all hours and burn the ****ing wallpaper "my love..." He's already said it better. |
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ventura highway......
yeah, that's the one my mind inserted. |
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very interesting- I like!!!!
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Awesome PP...
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The lens is inverted, in my eyes, behind them... my stamp, watermark. The inheritance of my birth. The stained glass of my window where shards swim like sharks, and rods and orange cones plaster directions back to my brain, floating in cheap wine or blood when I've had too much cheap wine. Skin the sun, piss on the stars, the moon... "my love..." Whatever. Pull down the streetlights, strap them to the back of the car. And "Just Try" painted on the back windshield, we go cruising down the (insert real highway name) and for a moment we were whatever. Bury the constellations in a box made out of thorn bushes and cheap metaphors, the kind of metaphors you can barely smoke are barely inhalable, sell for a dollar fifty at some shady liquor store. Keep them in a box, rename them, **** up every astrologer's year make them rewrite their columns question their gods sexuality tax attorney. Ripen the winter. The south has... become exhausted of us. It doesn't want us. Our skin is tree bark now enduring cold sweating snow... repeated snow non-unique snow. Our skin is stretched masks and television commercials for puns that sell poisons. Puns that sell poisons, ripen the winter. And bury the constellations, skin the sun. So many days under dead grass, scratching, but... one thousand tallies scratched in the chalkboard faces burnt into all hours and burn the ****ing wallpaper "my love..." He's already said it better. You wrote it, so it cannot be apathy...Angry wisdom with just a pinch of sarcasm to enhance the flavor... nice... |
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Nice flow man,,,within the eyes view,,,,
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it always makes me happy to see you writing!
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