Tuche & Automaton

Monday, May 19, 2008

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Spring axioms so much, a yellow sworn to metaphysics

(diagonal with rigor, parts of famine are light-speed's day and midnight)

Very clustered and cannibal: what are lilac circles of emotion?

An unblemished cube can reply, "You are molten and therefore not really a part of sex on this world.

"

Liberty is almost close to spinning music like abstract etceteras.

Sulphur's heart can wear Mandarin collars with teeth sailing for beige lipstick and eyes infected with subterranean calculus

(headless toned effort ruts the weather's zero: pleats of mirage added)

The television's soul is puffy, an eightball oasis

--torrential plasma loved from my ear's sick machine gurgles back through, "I refuse to murder for your reality," zones to scream red off as time after dark burns dragons from the gutter and nods the blackened faces of men--Atlantis awaiting the one flesh cosmology she wears sabotaged of juicy corals that flicker ascent to express vision: everything has never been in love twisted of factories and a tree's slow pulse--high shadows desire in all directions or phantom the carnival like pleasure wets punctuated with the beat inside elbows as a leap from promised decay plateaus our only reward stolen by watery lips--haste to reverse the evening's monkey loaded into kisses a kind of dusk and is logic on the catwalk mask holds a red-light district after arrival's word let white really nylon the uterus with compassion: each corporeal tips the sky of significance saying, "Crimson, give me streets that will negate each other"--extant to interpret throbbing

He has sunshine blared on unlocking chromosomes, porn from carrion skies

(plague spines off the rain's fetish for mutilating my legendary simile cock)

Western lands fragmented on your shadow's groove: liquor factions artfully a shade of lungs melt violin ribs into the stench of irrational numbers

(myopia's passing fortune is an authentic order into youth's jazz and jewel funhouse: a purplish dress glaciers after sound's surprising tip of finger ossifies my tongue)

Ravishing over your arched power, the leer answers only in branches. Theory stuns this message, a bit archaic glistening on the surface of, "Iam always mistaken for a mist of silver collars on blank memory." Sunny radar in the nothing is true forever carved as desire, devotion to a coalescing god who knows every artery we are saying.

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