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It starts all cold and forever frozen and each dog barking in ambivalence and eskimos feel themselves slipping to the gutter and forever we die puffs of smoke and stinging sweetness and yet the renaissance and science and undue bills and sputters and those rats scurry around the gutter on the beanstalk, one found its way past three, and the vomit and swimming is never the prize, but the lie of life and choice and yet we find a way to instill steak dinners and mirrors are shatterers of their own and employment finds its way to heart, and it all floats by that same serene river and what good am i plays as though we find our way yet Lutwidge Dodgson found his tomb and loves it there and says the weather is oh so nice. It was no good. it wasn’t rhythmic and children and hurdles and sun so bright and little girls find their way to the sun but the metronome shirt has no mice to sing it off to sleep and we are all broken but in that steeple night of darkness and bullshit word elevate themselves to some sweet song and myth.

The nobility said geese fly in V’s

But I know they stay in the trees

And when each one dies, they flap about and cry

And they throw themselves to the breeze

sputters threw up upon clarity within all the noise

intrinsic crypts crumbled at the weight of all that could not be felt

> Lucy,

> I wonder what would became of her

> but she told me to loosen the knots in my neck

> he will say the cigarettes are his way of self-reflection

> he always stood out there in the Frigidaire

> and out there in the controlled heat, the animals sweltered

> its so hard to stay here

> its so hard to think about that purple pasture

> I came here

> She landed on this planet with spent fuel

> ,edgar

I know to write is wrong. These words of no golden entice only the weak-minded. I know of all these incandescent blues, mine are less impressive.