Spring shuts its filthy mouth. Two ton Winter blows away. In the heat of the sun, wishing for some glasses. It radiates and I am searching for my sound. The continents and ocean and working with a moon. That enormous citrus rose rises. Try to slip the heap of shoulder from the grill before it all tastes like murder. The circle rises and legends are made. The snow beard jackals yawn on.
The hillsides are melting. Icicles meters long are falling. Down river the fish the mammals the mixes the hexes the rexes the river monsters and the math that convexes the surface of the waves to make me crave the idea that maybe the next thing my line might find is a thing that goes bump in the night. Time falls later in the face of gaining an hour. Tossed into a tiny lake of disputable depth.
Charges go off and the sea flexes and winks back. When I was young we used to have this thing where I would jump off of the porch and whomever lands furthest wins. Are silly. Did it ever occur to you that God was depressed? Dance in the moonlight and embrace a noogie. Makesit, we have to revise and tear down the entire operation. Sixty sixty will be a good day to die. With. Lulz
in the waves. Did not come here to see you. Walked out to a coast to see them. Robots may win eventually. The waves will come with less frequency. Is a myth difficult to dispel. Summer altogether. A perfect world is voided Summer. Makes peace with no one. Solution could be a nuclear snow. Is possibly the greatest thing I've ever
seen a ghost?
