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one two the tatoo beats in echo's produced by paul's floorboard, nailed
no more, the underground reaches back calls forth winds the twines and pines to lie
together. a creek funnels out, the rock backs the building that was a word.
rickets and holes ales and fails, the book rests open, john or luke, dust and the rest
yes mother, right away, but what, my dear, does the leech know. 7 years in diapers
i spent 7 once, a human diaper. shit on me, if you would be so kind, that i might
confirm my existence in faith.
the filtered tincture ebbs over a rising carribean tundra, the kind that pulls salt pores
and lays desert. a forest once stood there, here rather, a windblock now. tumbleweed
time, sun dials back the day, to when time spent in days was chickedscratch. No mother,
I think I'll keep you in me today, then you will hear, i know you can - just not here.
This glare emptiness of purpose you feel it too and long to know how I kept it inside
kept it down, ground the grind, all in the grind, too coarse or thin and it goes to shit
well and it goes nonetheless. To be pingeonholed what I'd give, at least you lust.
Three toes walked off to my urn last week, following mothers knees and hips, her
ankles i keep in a locket pinned to pacemaker, her cane i fashion from my will
oak once though i think birch or bamboo already.
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tim(mah)
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