Who could blame you?, it's valid.

This is tough to stomach, so VERY.

We could break her in half,
with hunger itself.

Why the long face?

With such an effort the heart makes when the gold is perceived and with
nimble fingers that cringe,
why the long face?

With the beats on top of each other, so much smiling makes us cringe.

Quick, there's cleaning needed elsewhere.


How slippery!

Carved, on a hunter's rock:

I smiled a private grin before the Golden One left.

It just might mushroom into something more noticeable it might not.
Who wants a sign? We do we do we do they say.

Hey, a handshake is tasteless, do you care.


How seamless the knee-hurting and back-burning pilgrimage is.
Put it on the wooden table, the golden statue, how proud are we, we will win it some other time.


You're my backbone, you're my backbone.

-

Yes I thrive in the eyes of the silly and ease-minded!

Erase me I will care as soon as you leave again but let's wrap this up so you can leave,
overbearing beet.

How easy and silky this is.

How do you manage to cross to the other side of the road with muddy claws on your back?
May hair serve as a weapon whilst water serves as a bridge.

Where are you going after that?
Do leave.
But return.

I cannot even utter how ecstatic I am, today is the brightest although it's late in the afternoon.

Now,
what if the mouth served as a bridge?

Would you still cross to the other side?
Sure you would.

This is oh so ironic man.

the Fidgets

I don't play the game of self-control, he said with hesitation with a smile that resembled a whistle being shook and with shakesperian eyes he added the lives of them were hardwired to stiff so he wouldn't let them take charge, he would seek a fellow for comfort so to speak. Furthermore, he bestowed his hands and everything into a vase filled with water.

vessel, move left.

Melttttttttt

you're a diamond.


say,
won't you trust the sunny blaze of hands holding

you


?

Radulae

They're,
a lot.


The fully-grown summer sun is heating the valley, an open branch.
Whereas your intentions are at ease, mine are not but in rain we might
put our intuition to work on fullspeed,

It's as simple as guessing where you've hidden your food.

Look at the beginning, at the rows that are not hidden but made for a reason
Look now, they're moving, dancing : the teeth, watch.

Whereas they lack of brain and their attitude is uninspiring,
the teeth harden you for the path oh how stubborn are you won't you come over

Why so many teeth on these radulae?
It's, perhaps, the result of their own brains self-constructing.

The need is the eyesight of more.

the Quest

It has got to be inside the Flower of Ivory and White Wood, they say.
Or, underneath the wings of Frozen Ladybugs.
Either, in between the guts of a Nightingale,
in the belly of a White Bear
or in the inner part of the Sea Urchins (trapped in Seabeards).
Where is it, really?

To follow the hunger, not. - Rather with cohesive Foolishness and Wide-eyeness we bow and we consistently crawl these mountains and forests in the Long Quest asigned. No, we do not complain and yes, we manage to embrace the pain in the Knees of Ours. The armor is no longer wanted or needed, the Queen's orders. We're left, only with the fur, and with hope in our hearts. We eat Raw-ish Fishes and Unhatched Eggs from birds, and the Queen provides the bread sometimes. We make the jelly out of Ripe Fruits. We take a break from the Quest and we sit somewhere inside the forest, and with bagpipes, bithels and harps, we joyfully let a tune or two out. The enemy haunts us but the Queen quickly casts a spell and they are no longer a burden. Oh, how committed are we, for nothing has yet been found. What has it been? Two centuries, seventy-two years. Oh, how the mythology brought us to where we are today.

As for me? I continue searching, but no longer in Queen's command. I long for the day where I can return to the village and maybe start anew, teaching the little fellow how to build mangers in the barn, and maybe going to the sea, the three of us, hand-holding. Carrying the stigmas of what used to be an extortion but is now a lesson learned, buried, burned. By the sea then, with wide moonlight, with a barely perceived horizon, towards the unknown.

And, the cold sand is in our feet and, we really don't care.







For now.

What is it

You thrive on innuendos - I don't


clockwork clockwork clockwork clockwork
I'm slight-ly
driven to-
wards (...)
What lies ahead?
What
ever it is Arises all senses,
and liquids
and bruises
Notice! How well thought.
Shield the system
away from
you. This
happened before
And I long again.
Legs.
And the problem thereof.


Maybe

Sure, or someone else, or something that has been thought of.
What makes the skin stretch to embrace the bodily nuances?

An opinion, scrambled as it is, is obsolete and lacks of necessity, and yet you just have to ask,
don't you?

Look at the issue in the eye and analyze whatever lies inside. Only carving like this gives you the answer:

)statement(

rather than draining from where there isn't any room to drain.


STUMBLE

YES!

Whatever's needed. Sure you'll grow out of it. But :

Passion may be a foundation of a human being - never put a cease to it.

Ode to a dim sky

There goes the

old-west
pride.


Whilst skies lack of moist elsewhere,
here
newly skies with full-
bodied clouds
reject the boring succession
and decide to
crack their bellies_____________
_______________________open , on
earthy ground.

Frowwwwning.
Sheding water outpours

And the river is here.
Above
and knee-deep.


Oh, how the gloom is welcomed!
Indeed, gray haze: walk on by
and
wet the dry skin

Look:
above:
whiteness: working ; masking all joy.

Listen, this is anything but dull.