Médiocrité

Highschool?

The flowers are concrete, they ruthe and scrawl in temper killing turgid, sweet honeycomb precepts that surround us from DAY ONE

On DAY ONE, 

I think, stop

Stop breath

The life force estrangela, they make a scythe where I need paradise, hymns that are good will, they heal the soul, they are felt like strange caterpillars hearth from a copper grass field.

If a god is then to be killed from within, then the soul harbour sea oil, made originally in a frankfurt medicity, allure that there are ocean lakes to test upon the gladness of the very material, asparagus the 

Sure, there is a distinct style that the"-tries to achieve but the synesthésia at best is poor, the words strive for rhythm and aesthetic hyperreality but fails

Synesthésia test

The closing of a door

The door’s chalk, love feathers that cry death as much as ice, the lights seep way into which glaze, the whither or not, dark plumb chocolate envelope you whole, till till it sweeps and melts to an ironic floor, that's heaven babe, heaven

Review 

The soul is captured in its own indulgence, it hestitates to make its own, it's authenticity is magnitude to an unpeckered eye, also repetition of heaven, ew

Libra

When I saw her, her eyes were made, neither quiver nor twist, they were sinking dark petals that sill from the dust of the heavens round us. Each cosmos divaricate, a trick of pretension, pink searing from orange black and then back to pink, they latch on like flowers, they do, it's that there were no such petals, an earth not in heart, before they wrap and wrap and wrap, sucking an offspring of ambrosia off you, I want you to love me,hold me close, choking even,love me when I am unconscious,and god if you don't, when I might lose my icicle to the daily argosie, I feel my mortality so close,my mouth, cold and cruel I have never in my life, felt anything, never, if I had, I am brain dead, I am brain dead

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Now the forthcoming words display but a resignation to the geocentrist, an acceptance of symptom, and irrelevance for cure.

The morning hours will be associated with the vicinal exams that but may seem of trivial importance but is highly associated to the furthering of the ego. Only those would be thought of, since in all reality, they reflect my propagation and finally my terminal success.

When I wake in mornings not owed to me nor any body for that matter, I will think of green lush of gardens, and the capital that churns in the midst of the bourgeoisie windows, black and styrene.

I will think in historical figures, the great reverence to display and change, revolution and comandeer while no such things ever would righteously persist near the newly found, newly decorated, that green lush,

More importantly I would think of my escape, to lands of art and aesthetics of all sorts and oceanics, where it's substance is both and neither commodity, but enslavement and happiness. I will gravitate to a freedom, that I have so envisioned so bare and naked in front of heart to paper out in these mornings.

When dread of day is finally ceased and a darker earth bellow, I shall either run, that is but run for my life to whisk out the memorabilia of mid life’s synthesis of sun and sunshine, to grow cherry and wine in the places of statutory degrade, where mind is both consumed and consummate.

For it's true that my heart wavers on, the historicity of day that travels in sublate, to sink in happiness into ideas such as sexual appeasing Columbian coke or that daylight of hegelian shitting, to feel such enlightenment from pre existing terms till and till my beats explode, and further on, I flicker and squirrel, day making home at night, I am to think then of green lush and green oceans, colorful lakes and joyous art, cubist heart and dire incense and

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MmI’d wake up then

   My bed’s a mess. Then the instant revolt, for isn't it almost systemic why it's so. The doors zoom out, they are ajar nevertheless, well spaced, rudimentary arbitration and what not. Then I’d feel the urge of thirst, midstance as the halfy tell a tale, the sinking sober, animous humanity flinching in contrast.

May i go… washroom 

He hasn't lapped his eyes, constantly earnest out of that glazed snowball of light, the yellow skunk of consciousness dripping now almost in lifeless aggravation.

For to wish for good night's dearest hearth, it takes more than the institutionalised evergreen fill of space rocket pills.

I clench with door every clench, I forget lights light, and darkness charge, angst of atoms fever fountain out, so I can see anywhere, I need water light, god I'd take my liberty porcelain leather cup, run squatch, misplace and fall, that beauty of alienation pursuing me hence, I skim, then I'd be fulfilled, I don't nothing of anything in this, I could stay like perfect forever, the sun still unscath before the crimson now gut up infinite in , the depth is so unseen, go on forever ,like this, 

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I need bleach.

I am reduced to a dark corner in a fourth head, my eyes swallow light and I think, my scales haven't had proper earth, I see too much. To weave elasticity is dream or better yet, the tongue of the bourgeoisie waver and sculpted into the thrust of this leeway, they are outwards and inwards, I do not care for words or punctuation, they do depict my lack of uniformity, I am ugly, and not moonlike, I am unloved by everything that's stunted a heart away, I am not deserving of love, I say, I am darker than any night sky, the stars that pickle forth and down, cello through my body, they make me so whole, so complete, so so undesirable

God, I am so f*****g sleepy.

It's often, I think it may just be me, that a semblance between an electrolytic abstract place or any form of space or so, you will know it false, I am but perhaps anti abstractive, anti encapsulation whatever, I derif

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The steam is paraphrasing, it's not that terrible kind of elusive that rots, the pure calcium sledge to half hearted bones, it's mist but erotic, yet infantile, quasi at every step, but with enough sentience to trip anything that Seychelles in loose unperplexed, doubtless liquor.

Her eyes are overtold, we have loved her and hers, then for life has ever birthed, she lays here, a myriad of iced, capsuled, we make her rose, the pulmonary rose or an effervescence of diaspora, make her bloom that neon green or a tangerine piquet, to reimagine the mother, mama without the creep of a freudian algae gently seeping out, radially and tetrad.

Ez had