By Jamelia Wigmore.
[...] Sweet dung up.The mower
The sudden gust whips up the scrum’s skirt
about her heels smell sweet A reql
child of a fuck Approaches off a
cowtip in every small lift of limb
If you are ever in danger, blow this chiropodist
and serve him nerve endings. And some older
punks you have cleansed with your pinna. You er
know by don’t you. (He with his long fingernails
sets sail out of a charnel hatch.
The dalek is expanding and the dark matter . . .
is you! Orgasms with an um. The clinkers
are full of thinkers so Ja Jeff
(Hilson) Sets sail for never mind that but
does it bursting out of a
Total Trap *not clearness. Lets have a gurn’see
the circlets among the whiteswarm of him have pixie missions
of they own, circularly golden-calf-tipping for instance
or other hex prank What Is There To Do. Thanks to Rednex mexico
plinkers remix. Bleach cuffs that round and round This transluscent mess
Softly Austral in this Scotch English chain store
I am looking for a lighter sheet I had one to Dora.
A bold gib that. The closest he come to admitting
What’s been happening to the Princesses of Fact.
I hand the pixel mission 'velope to the generaless
who hands it to the scion of oblivia. He glances at it,
looks on the back, then clears his throat:
onto a slumbering dalek
We soldered a vane”
TAMS DONG IT AGAIN HOWN HIS CORNER
“hey guys anybody mind if I zoom in”
“no go head” we all murmur
… “I’m just going to scroll up if that’s ok”
“yeah sure do it” we agree about it
Our Death 33 / On the Hatred of the Sun - Every evening its like the sun smashes into the earth. Its been doing it now for a few weeks. The sky splits into two and all the details of our lives - ...
4 hours ago