Duck The Weaving Hammer

flying cucumbers

the psychotic truth became his pants

i was worried about these things happened lately, noticed though things were late lie.

when becoming the morning fever of trust that possibilities were the happening fact

- it felt sour.

arisen from breathless sleep, I understood recently, I differed from the shame on air as others had mentioned to me too.

i felt a bit tired from breaking my neck on bars at speed from temper beats as they were ages old,

I was supposed on date.

when those creatures I was terrifying had undressed to (wait in fact, as we said: ‘we can’t always say black’) over

suburb the city into the no ledge of history wearing her silk handkerchief for dinner with minutes, splashing.

metaphoric sparking triangles handed him some time to spend, such as science looks and empiric thoughts

were none them couldn’t tell, but read as follows:

(continuation through the book which needs to be read! a release from Caballé Voltage, André Pissoir)