Why That Fear Is Still Them Enemies

Without chaos with reciprocity for the horse, I bow down to a lonely dog. I’m still pounded by the iron fist of my me. Hey, you be a tequila. Mister wears a skirt. I am stronger by the way. Him doubt him right mind. How go forward in train, waiting to hear rags, or a rock? Them endings, endings of them. My muscles hurt, I meditate. I monk my life and me anyway making things wordsy: a choice, the addressee, this a poem. Slap a new date on it and find the way crumbles go down. Find some place in head to cavern out, westering, ever going. Yaws, a transport. Tonsils not victims. Them grow and make things, themselves, making life a complex raid on reason. On smacked-out liar heads. From these shifting wisps a life is made? Yes, and the risks are too grand to try and make a Bigger so best to shut it down. Too risked out most find it to make a Colossus, a Tangerine of Super Proportions. Mutts get it, even retrievers too. You make a life by working overtime. In tinted hollow moments nobody hardly anybody gets that.