It is propulsive.
Desk work hounds the cash for groceries. So I can eat what doesnt kill me.
Neg pug slug grants my clap to a trap — en française to catch is attraper.
To a swell of freedom — form wise often plows along pecking at the ground, overhead schisms of reckless and the feckless — due to “glorious grotesque” preponderance of surface drift.
Am I in the quay? Asks quota baste stirs.
My gob is to rapture capture schisms prisms reflexes, complete onto introit trafficator — folds bold mold into liquefaction. No denying that lies at its essence. Nin pin and spin.
As virtue of seaward.
We are nectar.
You are a person not a personification.
I molt words of birds blithe and rife and tithe, in weld of tidal mores.
Sure. And love for it. Sure.
To emerge in any way I may at all, from the Great American Darkness. From its madness wards and perpetual wilderness east and west of violence.
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