Standard Shitting

Pull those daisies. Crawling forward from addiction place to secondary addiction place, moderation is a dream. Whisper in hourlong sessions with ghosts of elbow past, mango students shouting about falsity of dinosaurs. Removing articles of shadow clothing, stashing truth up on a shielded shelf, nothing is gained, neither is gained, nada is ganado, callate la boca para silencio en la mente. For crying out lout, frying the pain, callous hands master card tricks with victorious boobs. Nothing to dazzle, nothing to shiver the spine chances away in a manger, adrift on a shark strewn sea, plaster and moderate protection, this has to go on from here, for more minutes. The journal of a time and something is said about it and something wishes to be made real as a wrist, as a twist, there is trick ninja shit buried here. I remember willing myself to go with people I didn't like because I am willing to buckle, all about buckling under the pressure of whatever...like, if there's pressure, I'll seek it out so I can buckle under it. Thass moi. Tracable tangerine boy from coop in burbs seeks pressure to cow under. Please, oatmeal? That's too hot, spicy chicken. My ninja captain, oh my capitan. Try lake water for maximum stench in your stool, standover height beyond the wishbone, not a shaven chance, just a belch and a Bernie MacNernie to offer a pitching career to. Well, he's a part of my memory, just as is Janet Cryan and Ben Liu, high school best friend and confidant with a BB gun. We ate a lot of rice, with strange dried pork shavings, it was always good, always warm in the kitchen, always there. Mastodon got et by them Russia. There was a flavor like beyond history in them Russia and they et it all up like a treat from The Beyond. Not many people have eaten mastodon, especially not in the golfing communities of Boca Raton. It's special if you are in Florida and the world is round, all around the world the world is round, all around the globe the curves are arcing, filling the tangential void with space, with curves and ways. It's a small trick to travel in them, like a station that spins, these curved -nesses that have being for their direct drive engines. The oatmeal is warm and fully consumable now, but boring. I feel my buds, my mind attached to my buds, wanting more powerful, more grandly stimulating sense impressions. What is my life's homepage? How does it get free from stuff, from whales made of want?