Sedans compressed like a and b buttons,
uneaten pork chunks lavished with overdone rice,
waiting to be of some use again.
everywhere
there is white rooftop,
winter wonderland, glazed power line,
snot noses run toboggan time tests,
like engineers from deutchland.
more charles schulz than charles schulz.
it looked like this when we
formed to become a voltron spider.
your casket being the thorax.
i was the right, front leg.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Monday, February 13, 2006
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