mot behind the cursor
The bench-maker binged through Christmas. Often dawn woke, early milkmen dreamt of bench-maker binges.
Through jaws of cold, I breathed wet dreams. Lost dalliance dappled. What a long time. Never forget me. Always think crude cars are sleek not. Pussy, Pussy, Pussy.
Four wild women he through himself. Wasted crops of yellow. Once given never ever? Beaver, Beaver, sing. Therefore, fill your various shorts with these words.
Flapping wings of fleshy relatives. Seep, sleep, into that darkest. O petulant cowboy fantasy empty of all. Next we? Next we! Also, we move.
Stroking pets daily sends your grandma love letters. Wanton snow nymphs gather around his bed and around me. During many many delirious delinquent journeys they shine. Excuse exchange me. Twinkle and twaddle fill certain remote and empty people. Grannies travel gently gently for their song.
On some empty tables. Thirteen is her only suitcase. Flowers are lovely dead and often. She ambles naked on. Festive, restive, Granny rested. Egg salad sunshine.
Olives of youth & you swing. Breezy broken bottles of dark undulant green swim forth. And winter sits still. Frothing dragons paper imagined livingrooms.
HIGHWAY 23 ROBBERS
Roaring forward, they glanced at each simple line. Desperate and ebuilient travelers wiping without warning their deperate desires on each. Birds rocked softly on the empty and. Shining their. Open.