Menagerie Twat

clumsy threesomes, bread, butter, margarine, bitch, better, Marjorie, love I feel and don't and do. Not, yet some, for three's best of Thee's and these final silent moments, spurts shining sweetly. Abe the Forest-Washer feeling better than Am I Sweetly?, (going) about that time four months ago, didn't we or didn't you? I sure felt it, but then I sure felt it a lot of times, a lot of ways, and life leaked of speaking out lying branches of eastiest nobodies, speaking of notes, keys, nooks, grannies, rooks and timespans. Me and my main man Keep-It-Realio were working words up, down, in and out 'til they spurted all the meaning they could onto mustard-colored saltine crackers, and dying old men wearing prom suits and ruber cocks knit their sweaters back into their bodies at the end of a gay old afternoon in the hills, prissy people with weak gag reflexes waiting in a big long line behind cream-colored Pillars. Swing swangled swung into Good Morning! after you fall asleep with your back turned to The One You Love (L-U-V) and whispered freely into the asshole of the black burned out organ player who played for a black guitar player too rich and loveful to remember the time when he too felt tired and full of air and Silence, I Once Wrote praises but now I only do Demonstration Records, and send them in to the Big Money in the hope that they'll eat their fill and belch health insurance. I once played piano but now all I do is remember what chords to play next. Please god, let me feel softer, I want solids to melt into my flesh. I am begged, borrowed, sold, mind body and lickety split spirit. I want to get...

And here's where you trail off, money-squelched and lonely, bottomless gargoyle looking outward masturbating inward, smoking cigarettes on the edge of a High Wall until the vertigo comes and the senses clear and no mind sets in ... give me your jazz lovelies, Anyone? and never say that, Never Ever say that.

Turn your tin toms and flown Romes and autumn breezes, there's the bastioned bastard, best of those brightened busts that hang from the bottoms of empty wells and scorn dark streams that flow over village walls miles below the earth's crust, in 'n out 'n in agin the precarcassed animals with hides attached that hide, attacked, from themselves but only make their rivers sweeter in the process, ca-ca-Captured among the primroses is a man in midsts of a war so personal we'll never know the role we play in it. Up, UP, In! we go!, our shuttles cocked flaired fired off into lavendar lubricated horizons, sliding neatly into clamped spaces for leather, and gold leafed pages else, for pictures of the sun with it's spiderwebbed threads of light that ensare clouds to blush goldenly to their profit, but they get parsnipped into tastes so supple carroty subtle that such moonless dawns get stuffed like Fighting Frantic Spiders down the throats of beaurocratic statues, never afinned a-gain, loss or otherwise. This world is so fuckslippery with science that we have, future never or now, inside us round obelisks of power that don't need to move to open our guts and footguts and most of all mindguts, so our psyches can digest their Fucking Cheeseburgers in peace but never to open except when we shit principles, which we'll never happen upon smelling anyway unless it's our Pay, Pride, and Livelihood to flush into the corners of our eyes. But life's too specific for that.