Sunday, March 21, 2004

the damage metre doesn't love me, I'm on popular till loosened grapeshot fields the day. on loan of tomorrow feds, greater guarantee while ladders break provocatively. what if I were pantaloons in the sun, severed from drooping, and only engaged as a node amongst close reading? as if the day, the night, and clerical errors of great import. the rose of poetry, while reading instead of talking. well, the sound of peaceniks brocading the sunset, listen for a stack. the whole positions itself amidst parts, founding a protocol and cuttlefish. later, we'll sleep, having enough definition for the nonce. who is wary now, and will forgive? the last sentence awaits its turn.

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