If you have eyes, the slave is yours.
A cartoon in there. Propaganda for true love. 88 Solo. Characters. Sure things. Creating the common language as they go. Pier. Dope. The cozy soot of near survival. Stallion approaching Bud Powell, Monopoly/arrhythmia/ my country 'tis of thee/sweet land of liberty/ land where my father was stylized into leopards and leaped.. of thee I sling, land of no narrow trance, no narrow trance in the lantern reflex of being noticed not noticing land wearing any person/ promise /mistress/standardized, you can't plan a crooked entrance into the rubble of bending down at the last minute just in time to admit the balcony mid-air in no-land-care, wary. Quarry between two open hands. We stay there. We look like a poster for staying there cushioning the look with gimme that stallion steal me back from them, can you
(Imaginary canopy, nope, actual anchor image down in my glands limitlessly digging them fountains, smokestacks, capital L. puff the magic ofay dragging out the riddens. We had the kind of time you can't tell when it amounts to space but it keeps expanding until the slave of your eyes shuts at the edge of labor, an entertainer)
Pretend to be jumping when you're actually falling and get called Jordan cause that's as far east as your gonna get without religion at the edge of labor, an entertainer. The omnivorous church door is blank neon octagon minimal coil c'mon and believe oral evidence only from now on if you have eyes the slave steals me back from them when he can, reaches for the edge of labor and palms pick up in applause, bossman, an entertainer.
I mean every witness is responsible for the slackened boundary between devotion and no narrow trance in the blindfolded midair performer, no pucker in his gift, working his way up your supervision
