vocal organs

prettylittle, 19

In the middle I spied him. How do I. Remember it an early morning escape, ascended from all between this and them in the dark. Driving that night, in from the drunk-stench. But now as always, aphonia. Your long journey home with poolstick as prop. I suppose this loss of voice, I think it was explanation. The only song is organic, and we were. I feel like I recognized him. He looked on my nerves, my functional disturbance. Driving down, that’s worse than staying nervously around, wondering symbolic. The vocal organs, late at night.

About this, persuade me from the feigned passionate speechlessness.

urge tinged else

prettylittle, 18

Now you see that I’m tired. Foregoing and urge tinged, altogether uneven. True feeling anterior, sitting on the old voice. Altogether disheveled. Blue without my primogenitor. Mauve, bad or good, it all coming across time, lineage, family tree. Sectional sofa, sounds the same. How I’d like to move to taller roots. Looking at the loneliness. The good way, anthropophagous, is muted and I probably will after I tried once, I say. Remembering with solemn description of the upstairs, talking to the night with him more (alas, I thought, a final time), annoyed at the human flesh (his). Soonafter I return to erasing his opening (such of the soft human beings), and cannot be heard over the hushed chicago. And from memory, he beats of recognizable song. The direct opposite of conversation and rhythmic tap, tap, tapping. Maybe I will leave with me.

sipping sense metal

prettylittle, 15

 Sipping metal, I shake to death. Someone else oftentimes wonder typically, and  was I wrong. People do much, that holds through this comforting. At first things cost, burning in a fireplace. Failure, then inevitable when drunk, maybe and yes you were. You’ll get out of that. Seems I should straddle the hearth slab… obsessed with bed and a good idea. Smoke a cigarette being full of fashion, move somewhere else to the time. And concern yourself with windings and intricate turnings. Failure in the truest sleep, even be regrettable. Looking occupied, tortuousness in a theoretical sense.

enter enough, tip of true

prettylittle, 13 - 14

Enter tip of tongue, temperature as the gazing fact: I’m sitting alone, at or on or near the sun. And the hands on him now would be large.

Ameliorate the sun. Hips to go against, I keep thinking to make something care. Waist, neck, and everything I’m attempting. Someone will see better. I’m sweating myself, a finger behind the ear. At just this moment, find me. Amity explosive. Stroking a stubbled chin, it would be interesting friendship. Grease congeals me cleft, to lower myself to myself and begin anathematic. To this and then that, the most useless of positions, strange & heated, relating. Spills, drips down, goes away and he shouldn’t have given me his conversation. Something me, onto me. Remember me with me. Vehemently hurry before I bed true enough.

sweater of introspection

prettylittle, 6

My sweater of introspection. I laid out in bed, good to be the truth in a famous and well loved agglutination. Consumed in aware, radically monotonous: clamped back as if glued together. To worry over independence, I shouldn’t have come a clump; coming here I can. I come in vermilion. Into this clumping if for no other reason. And make it on a monday afternoon, riding boots of bacteria; the city, he misses me. This year I will off when sick  with him. Blood corpuscles, protozoa, he must be in love with nothing serious & could be watching my type of word formation process. The idea of an impossible possibility, all serious. Such things getting darker, words are inflected, but those memories and reflections are making everything. Thinking to self, by the second. The addition of one or more presumption makes it all so romantic. Happen by self. So good to get. I appear to be the only one meaningful & delicious.

in lime like life

prettylittle, 1 - 5

In eyebrows adjure, but simply. I love the falling in this apartment where nothing is my urge. Probably going to love, but not sacred, at the moment. Solemnly come and visit the staying there. Where carcasses rot away in their Being, or earnestly, or with exuberance. I want it always congealed, no doubt, whilst I sit uncomfortably. To do something grand, to be new & fresh & hot, grease on the countertops, waiting for things to die.

Admonition, idea, like always it is for days on end. Sounding rock, gentle city misses you. In the beginning cartons of yogurt, dark, shiny wood. Friendly reproof. Just a little, that means days of spoons stuck in tables, gold and green. Warning against a week though it seems.

Multiple orgasms, gelatinous masses. Ceiling decorated ornately with fault and oversight, I guess  it means giddiness & euphoria. Crumbs and shoes, gold detail, praise what he feels inside. Ecstasy & lentils spread about, reminiscent of someone. Some kind of love stirring. Jubilation, coated pans. Royal, excessive, shaking and stirring. Possible feats scratched, hid. Brick walls with fireplace.

Obsequious I understand, but also understand I the stolen and filled. It’s working, the remorse, because relationships have nothing. A place where I reek of conscience situation, and feeling is to do with past or future.

Toilet runs consistently. Lavender repeated contiguous. They fail looks. Having recently doused, bite & wound, too many circles. Lime like life.

root vegetables

& I, sometimes, we're turning colorless. It is because we're steeped. And I, like that rough outer skin, can be bit through solidly. I fulfil myself, irons & spices. I am a self fulfilling prophesy.

on riding over the dry leaves in the road

finally, the red leaves a litter. They like largest driest petals dropped from crusted rose. I see here, the roses still on their tall stalks, if brushed would crush to fall. If a rose could talk it would bloom; in the times I've felt the nearest push of prick into me, my cushioned thumb in hazard, in lightning, I never hasten wonder when wilst the final bud drop to crumble. Anchored now in thorough autumn, still open and gushing sappy pink light of softest flesh petal skywards. The open rose, the frozen palm.

harvest moon

To be literal, you were missed... but the moments with you last night spelled all if otherwise. Your wise face almost screaming down to us in light, illuminating all the yard and the bench and our cold breaths. The harvest is so icy this year.

there to wrinkle around his eyes

prettylittle, 71 to 75

There to die thinking fast I’ll be, with you always. Fast I’ll be with you always. And just cold enough to live for looks. In letters, to live. To trek a journey I am. With talking and feeling I have been here four nights. The origin he is. The universe. But I feel of some figs I should figure.

More obvious a walk, I should only.

The egg out then, the solar system a cheese of some kind. A favor and we’ll be turmeric coterie. What do you see?

Waiting on our way away, and red with such potential future. Wishing badly on the bedsheets. Interests & tastes, on this island last. Burn sage familiar in my ears, especially obvious. Smoke talking terms, thinking exclusive of others. Tell me what you’re seeing.

And listen like we could, undulating on the crepuscular little wrinkles around his eyes.