It was a pattern that killed her in the end, suddenly she could not breathe inside the tensilation.
(My mute fingers stick, they shiver in time to an unfelt cold. vowed to be shut for all of lifetime, but a green streak runs down my chin, a vomiteous tinge I can see you cringe)
The disruption in the routine made for greater stuff than even she, with her delusions of grandeur, realised. There was a young man in a beard. A little man lost in a cloud that she stared at from an awe-stricken distance: these were razor eyes, you could not help but melt into wickedwitchwater. Then the flygoblin himself, kind eyes that crinkle at the corners.
Ofcourse, we watch my school boy legs
in a choked darkness
a dirty stairwell, a backdoor leading to a backlane, a red door leading to nothing.
these dancing insects fly to die gloriously upright until they lie on my bathroom sink
oh to be a lizard under the light: this is the truth, nothing else.
her armhair rose as she watched them dance out their parts, from the corners of her eyes, breathing in the air: two parts silentdisapproval to one part blankfog
This buttress mattress reminds me of a floor chattai, here we are, like caterpillars waiting to hatch. How do I explain to you, your voice crackling across your flooded land, how I am not the one for you? Doori I say, desperately trying to mute out the foreign twangs my ears are drowning in. A wise man told me the difference was class, a wild man told me about classes (but he was just clawing his way into my elastic pyjamas). So I try to declass, but then here we are again, another phone call, again I try mutate my voice. It doesn't work, my voice breaks. I have nothing to say. Hello hello, Akira takes the phone from me, it works better in her floppy mouth, her pink soft mouth with hidden razor teeth.
Sex is in the air, there is a stalker on the roads. It's this time of the month, it's true. This time of the month old women give me their seats in buses, a blind man knocks his stick into me. I whiz past, suspended in rickshaw-midair and I see through smog a crotchscratcher with his tongue hanging loose eyes flashing at me comehithercomehither: I fail to understand this. I grimace and look away, is this what Dahl smells like?
Walking in the dark makes for winter loving but you walk alone it's true
(My mute fingers stick, they shiver in time to an unfelt cold. vowed to be shut for all of lifetime, but a green streak runs down my chin, a vomiteous tinge I can see you cringe)
The disruption in the routine made for greater stuff than even she, with her delusions of grandeur, realised. There was a young man in a beard. A little man lost in a cloud that she stared at from an awe-stricken distance: these were razor eyes, you could not help but melt into wickedwitchwater. Then the flygoblin himself, kind eyes that crinkle at the corners.
Ofcourse, we watch my school boy legs
in a choked darkness
a dirty stairwell, a backdoor leading to a backlane, a red door leading to nothing.
these dancing insects fly to die gloriously upright until they lie on my bathroom sink
oh to be a lizard under the light: this is the truth, nothing else.
her armhair rose as she watched them dance out their parts, from the corners of her eyes, breathing in the air: two parts silentdisapproval to one part blankfog
This buttress mattress reminds me of a floor chattai, here we are, like caterpillars waiting to hatch. How do I explain to you, your voice crackling across your flooded land, how I am not the one for you? Doori I say, desperately trying to mute out the foreign twangs my ears are drowning in. A wise man told me the difference was class, a wild man told me about classes (but he was just clawing his way into my elastic pyjamas). So I try to declass, but then here we are again, another phone call, again I try mutate my voice. It doesn't work, my voice breaks. I have nothing to say. Hello hello, Akira takes the phone from me, it works better in her floppy mouth, her pink soft mouth with hidden razor teeth.
Sex is in the air, there is a stalker on the roads. It's this time of the month, it's true. This time of the month old women give me their seats in buses, a blind man knocks his stick into me. I whiz past, suspended in rickshaw-midair and I see through smog a crotchscratcher with his tongue hanging loose eyes flashing at me comehithercomehither: I fail to understand this. I grimace and look away, is this what Dahl smells like?
Walking in the dark makes for winter loving but you walk alone it's true
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