R/ckets and S/ntries

feel loaded for dead? you make child noises in night along rivers stealing fish from old man Jenkins, who threw you loop over the world when you were younger, now it is an image often pulled from testifying that you could understand the arrangement of blood and lines and staying alive for another minute for listening, your word done over again but excuses luck on, the strange cage joining into which yours is a name, meant for blowing up Arabia as just a practice or vice versa when the steel wind turns over the news, you feel good along with rope, the cavern has been updated to jail, your mention of impediment makes us all laugh, our political process insists on a state, the weary close doors and find funding, perhaps you could join the journey into logging parties and real tomb for, if you'll, a boy paints a picture of a graveyard because it is his feigning wish, you too could be that cause and effect

postulants fry the Red Sox on their fulminated reserve, but we who are privy to sideways refer to the afterglow of oink. when the war comes to combing your hair, you too will be program. outside your Red Sox, (verity, the call of Boston), you'll be a plastic sheet. think of all plastic sheets as definite. you're in the league to say America, that taxable. wish reserves a place in the auditorium. wind blows a fart onto your very first book. you can mine your precincts with dedication, the angelic aliens from Vegas have called in a profit ratio that you will enjoy. here's the splatter cast of being in the biz. promo means duty, war's a residual. the fuck of cream cheese will bend to the wishes of your elegant post modern bagel. since yearly your ass, and more to come, let's have a cup and lift.

have to send a pond commission, the frogs aren't the only details, we've heard of vicious things happening, now it's night, the pond won't always be, a trend towards drying out exists and plays on, blood can be washed, do we need to remember everything? the aliens made the day, we can dream if only, at almost 9:00 too much comes to an end, and not enough

chump change engages arsenal on the left. peerage daydream rips the moon filter, because it is love on the downswing from verifiable loss banks, and because it could. still rage needs a baggage check, the poets huff at work. will the wing resume its mordant dance on topics while we whistle? the elf business noodles along, haymakers for awkward aliens. a need arises and pokes you in the eye.

that doctoral candidate you lost wants home, the thrift poets of conviction need a basis for damn nation, meanwhile a run on sentence went off without a hitch, resonant news always wants to address that, as for the war, yes we sink inside a melon called off, furthermore there is no waft left in disjunction until you say 'I Love You', the fever pitch still regards us benignly, and we're all ready for more class structure, until then, send in red guarded material for the final mow down, praxis wants a head dress

inventing farmer generation, all the while the sun melts but does so fragrantly, the charm of great oat plants looking steelly and prefect in the noonday sun, foremost cattle and provinces of pig control all visions and requisite, prefect distils the perfection with great tales of herds of watermelon going to sweetly market, and delectable pieces of chickens are hermetically sealed for your prefection, because belief lives in our orange farmhouse and the daft but colourful aliens seem so mirthful as they land in the cornfield amongst great armies of potential popcorn, political winds blow hard and heaving during storm time when the mighty farmers must adversely prevent the elements from overtaking market share, can the peace that passeth all beguile a nice radish early from the ground? will peas seem as sweet as delirium when we talk about what the fuck? is this war amongst us or a storage facility somewhere else? prefect vision of idol warship, with whom do we consult as the glistering dew transfixes the eye that rests upon tomatoes? what would you give right now?

a short river stays pleasant with the verse stung biological meaning,
improvement proves condition,
a clerical error controls your life but that details still sway,
we wrap into wet planning,
a haze over beginning again,
it's a chance to give up as an exclamation...

oh to be a farmer,and the rice paddies gleaming like ice floes out of Africa, where we learned to care trucks, tho adaptive of results, and inferring a pressure situation: tho magnified the thing is smaller than tearing sounds

oh farmer of effort, in the dragnet out of constant ditch, eliciting where verbs go, stopping a chance dandelion for a friendly laugh in the wind, kindling orations for a further day, smirking at deposits of rice ready for market

oh frame for the farmer, standing in the intelligent muck while perceived by chance aliens, initiating a dogged resistance to cows and herds in genereal while freaking the registered voter in anyone deep, but still important where lines cross and confused gestures mean the most

of farmer of worth and severeity, hand me a trowel that I may dive into the ruckus and pull our aplomb, these shitheads we meet tear the cloth

give up these green things today. today embark onto out these theories and at a price. today a bit of what we call torture, on an honest line then discuss. today as in the reading you made over the gloom, forested for pleasure only. today as in these green things as you made ready, watching at the news and on the topics. today as in splat, we've carried too much. today and until, you read over your news. today and only today, you read blue into green because that's a discussion in years. if in the sense of a beginning, you say a most. each most adds up, plenty. you in today is on an honest beam. sat for it when other green could be, then decided. it's in decide that the torture ends a beginning. it isn't a very news but only on the surface. we discuss as a present. there isn't a today to deny. we've got a green day ahead, in skies abounding with what you say. this give up takes a way. this theories rises from some clump of grass or torque in process. you can tell, when you are ready.

the barn door. a possible infraction in parliamentary beer token. no chance in heal. then panic Iraq, then shape screen, then these dental left overs. this isn't a word found blue on a chosen seaside: this is a desert when the aliens. it wasn't unusual in given or shocking. it was a slay. it was a boy killing. it was shot in awe. oh is the shape of every vowel, panic Iraq. oh is the simple inside when we tell torture over head and in. oh is simple with a reproved government begin. here's a take on what then happens, spoils and spirals of swore. out on ass insistently. talks a good game voter process. the barn door after all.

total file releases
info stat, takes
charm from mild
excuse, reeking
of forget
the past but
buying out
the whole
language cause
emblem,
touch of torture
shows a skill
in deeper than Heidegger
propounded in a numinous
moment outside
Nazi tell, there was
not real
a coral haze, or choice
magnifies the
buttress of our doubt,
clinical in case
the droplets
fall too soon