VIII

Fat green mist. Day falls. Mute overhead. An coded end. Play of fields. Elect eyes. Impressioned. Have waist given to fear. Of prism. By light known. Fallen summer. Devil harp pretend noise. Made to prayer. Stutters still. Will not form lines in this quiet and heavy. How, of dawn. Was made. Was promised. Refused. Was spent. Was stilled. Was silent. Hurt. It end. Away goes. Of that who are you fell. Was stupid. Quiet now. Dangle the scissor. Eerie. Snubbed. For motions there. None came. Oh settle. Please list them. The floors? And only floors. A list of only floors: And if the flies do breathe. And if the legs, theirs, curl. Curl and burn. Spluttering fats of insect. But I am too unhollow. And I am also far too breathed. Goes into the basque. Our chewing deaths. What their feelings are. Renew. Dissuade the heat death of the kitchen. This mouldy it lived here in the long quiet nights spread out in the name of morning. It is why the prison sits. The case for refining tongues. Her mortician. Her faucet. Was knack. Buckled the wheels. And so, as you say, it hurts. Compels the monitors. Checks the drawer. The skinny toes too at the reframing word. I engaged the park with barking. Peeled my face down the legs. Took the toe in the hands. I have a head. But the arm the hand the foot the thumb the back. Far beyond possession. And there. Its speech on tabloid skins. Never fail in settlements. There is this thing of weakness. Who are the population. The course is rags to a sky. We are finically disproved. But, hello. For I have a head. I extrude emblems. My terror potential is powerlessness. A gaudy apple. She sees to shed the wound rope. It is a list of forty lives in there, horrid with moth skins.