Trainrack

Please sign in and stain today with that gaze, you know the one? The day has poured us a fresh glass of injuries and I, for one, am grateful. Pick one for your very own: dress it up, take it home, and cuddle with it; let it mingle with your identity. Trot back to town with your new found feign, and show off the trips of your transgressions. Soap would be proud of us I'm sure. It'd slap its suds on our back and say to us: "son, that's initially what I thought too, when I first found the crashing".

inter

cheap 'why's chafe our Lord knows where we'll put the remnants. Pace back and fro to fix the flutter (the chirping, the mixing of ringing with wrong-doing...). Stop occurs, truncated. Sound flounders. "Pray our eyes out"edness. Tome and time again. Trace the cracks on the chapped lips newly smiling, peer into them. Trueth spelled funny. Knock. Falls through faces, we lay ours out, open in the street hoping someone will gaze lovingly upon them, maybe take them home and hang them out too, why?

face at last

The difference between prose and poetry is the difference between an apple and anaphylaxis. For instance, when you read a piece of prose, you bite into once-living flesh; you chew, crunch and work the flavor into your body. It is sweet. It is sour. It nourishes. The core is thrown to the ground, the remaining flesh decays, and the seeds grow new life.

Poetry begins similarly, however, shortly after swallowing, immunoglobins begin their work, communicating with your mast cells, telling them to protect you . Your pharynx begins to swell; edema begins to seep through membranes and fill your pulmonic tissues. Inspiration ceases and you fall to the ground.

Anyway... your death-fist-flesh encloses the flesh of the apple still. As both decay, the sun bakes your body and the seed sprouts, sucking up the apple's and your body's now mingling nutrients.

A tree grows up lifting your body to the sky.

One day a child will climb the tree; her limbs communicate and speak with the limbs of the tree as it leads her to a place where a face can be seen poking out. The tree's skin has given your skull a new face. The child will smile and run her fingers over your eyes, nose, and cheeks, and then she will kiss your new lips and the poem will begin.

loud knows we can't be eggs over that easy

Baby Pissboy Blue took a rocket-ship into who-says-so. Suddenly, the manager runs out shouting in a thick horse-accent: "You soccerstreet some-agains have a gain to be sure of it, and don't you mean 'engulfed by the... or maybe just quietly lapped, or even just tickled by the mere murmers of the suggestion.'?"

Cold as hands shaking hands with cold plans, Baby Pissboy Blue shouted right back in visual force, wall-eyed man, shaking eyes with air: "we've erred in the past good Swear, but this town hasn't the rind for the twixt of us, and I've sucked the mint of your moaning song-enough".

Not sterile, but medically clean stares hung in bags under the Manager's eyes. The clock ticks the clock sticks the clock ticks the clock ticks, errr... hangs there hot, but BPB knows just when to woo and sudden-twirl-kicks the "mere suggestion" back to the general direction of the sky. And that's where it sticks to this stay holding hands with the Main Plot with Baby Pissboy Blue and the Manager still "in the thick of it".