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Who’s ya sister, IIII

(no one’s sister is real)

we is danced to the melodic sub sahara more precisely to its, “shooooooooo-ooo,” its desert wind
grassy beachyhead god’s wild catholic premonitions and all wrapped in one huge brown kilt of you
pasting me into your dreams last night like a fox taking wet pizza box back to hole you dragged me
to the hope the radiant city of hope I visit sometimes in my sleep straight out of the casket I came
and you were, ‘get on with it,’and also, ‘you are it,’ with hot needles and cramps of the ark of the
covenant you drove the land drover through the solace plane drug peninsula always there before me in the soft desert of rocks and jagged bird beaks the steel of the bird the wind in south london
the pieces the conentrate the energy lack of… the animal lick at the bed’s end.

Who’s ya sister, III

autumn what you have
hold on to brown leaves and crunch them
up kiss of morning dew of it missed so supposing
you’re dead a kiss is a kiss with nothing left to do but
kill the wild four-thousand-eyed slaughterer in the attic or
shoot the snake from a middle distance talk about it (no) no
not in an elevator or ascending stairs all the real beatings aren’t
seen because the coal burns white hot and you don’t remember but
when it slopped onto the floor the orange coal it tore the carpet and in
side the holes I saw many past christmas all the other years I was in the
yellow room with the green lamp with harry and daisy actors of my mind not
the slugs at burberry party (carrion for the subvultures) the cat snooze on the
floor by the bed right now so in the yellow room I span at light speed motionless
in the chair while logs screamed red eyed in the fire, “crisp! crispy! of the studio one!’
(whatever your party was) span deeper to a spot on the yellow wall so I divined myself
into it (though to take any credit for this is in itself anti divinity the pro absurdity of the
Marxist jelly-ite)

the yellow wet I found was my own my mown memory in the actors studio behind cardboard
door and window of hungry harry helping me back easing me back into my light speed chair
of the runner in my corner eye of the white round circles glazed in the black before me like
olives bulbed and white in the fore like plant pustules exploding spores invisible coloured but
saw nothing just felt some warm circle spreader parameter I would not step out of alive and back
on beachyhead

Who’s ya sister, II

story goes we will be on beachyhead slow dance for the macabre skeletons bursting overhead old loose bones rain down send the rabbits running
they all said as though they could come in muttering ‘now’ and wash their hands in the sink while flaking story goes, ‘hello clayton,’ sore ears of the january is ears heard, ‘come, come,’ via this, via that, via viable solution but it’s an emergency and is the password teabag? settled pot down and black burned in the sink

Who’s ya sister, I

Is it because I don’t have real sideburns or that my strange ideas
wash well with colours or
starch a starch substitute constitutes a large part of my knowledge
sensitive it is to right the wrongs of yesteryear
the trick is to puff out your sideburns I have already and spread the wire across
kept all the chickens inside - wrapped myself in a flag and lost a lot of sleep
it is not obvious
there is no telling that no telling that to anyone even if they beg
saved the final dance for you with your arms on on beachyhead whispering
in my arms you will said, ‘I’ve never been excited only when I’m with you I get a crooked feeling and I pull myself through I can’t change x3.’ just like you want me to buried in the dead sand rocks light and burn huge black holes like eyes in the sand sharing old sand of the past in the phoenix desert

O
ne
dir
ecti
on

Of
fal
rep
rod
uc
ed

Tr
ain
ed
me
at

po
wer
red
cor
ps
e
s

us
in
g
electrolytes

Are we shitted underweaar?

I don’t want to help help
the diseased
if you should die…

you should dies because
you are diseased soon
to be deceased is
dragging yourself to
working talking drinking
taking in interesting people
to eat and talk and
drink and talk more
over whether it’s working
at work, should we
solidify it, ancient monument
immortalise ancient green money dollars
shave ourselves alien and barcode every
bitch to fuck I fuck so many human females
I have begun to look like one
marketing strategy look at mark chatting angie
by the water cooler whirlpool in floor sucking
everything into a whole
new age.
HUMAN BEASTS ARE ALL A-BACK-A-WARD:
the priest never says to god,
“Take us off, we are not worthy”,
but panties always do
right before the guilt convulsions

Lov

God’s hand of butter can’t grip you
but still, I’m scared to die
sacred to die and I
have to be alive because there
is no other way

hearts are as many canals
passages, chambers to chambers you want,
collectively, just meat, no ‘One Heart, One Love’,
only numinous, solitary hearts win
it’s what makes them work

and send lonely spores out in the air
you see them all floating looking for you
maybe looking to climb in your nose and down…

fungal love grows hourly, minutely
coup poudre in your face from someone’s heart
in your nose it starts and poof! you’re a corpse
of love already, but you don’t even know it

love corpse chasing cupid’s rotten arrow in your

dog after its own tail - we wade through shit to drink piss

USAved us all

Tumbling 4 U
rich white america gods of the party and world
I’m writing 4 U,
I tumbl 4 u, well off white yank teens I die for u
we are not worthy we are not worthy we are not worthy
we are not worthy we are not worthy we are not worthy
we die for you now and then and always to come it’s a
pleasure and it always will be

A

Who’d give u a clue I’m itchin 2 kiss U?
The wear wolf, oh? chomping bee-strides small shorts in the sun
u can’t put ur arms around It, u can’t isolate the proletariat, u can’t be outside when ur in because
you already are both if you follow we follow
it doesn’t hurt to try but it does, to try is the hardest
safe I am now safe and bored settled and bovine I saw no rain for a month - but a tyre exploded once and they all rushed outside thinking to see a gun wielding man out in the moon -
but I helped French tourists where I could, even a wine waiter husband who worked in eiffel tower, and we felt better, trying
nothing surprise, nothing always, eventually YES
Didn’t summarise at all, didn’t surmise it would be painful, didn’t pick out the godly among thieves, didn’t grind the pepper or udder the goat
verily I did not see the good ones and I did not point them out for there are none

But
I played we played beach boys also pins all over my body as hotness it robed me up good yeah
drove me to the good red logs in the stove, I thought
am I now wearing the robe of fire as I was told I would by Walid because,
‘You (I) no ‘allahuakbar’ - fire’
‘You clothes - fire,’
‘You drink - fire, this no good’
La quais

Walid with ur ten year old face and spindly legs and big sand feet, middle age Arab eyes middlehead,
Saudi protectorate and brain paraplegics Saudi Opera House of the woild/world/wild/walid
ov the wild seven years prison time

soft and hard like Alia, construct of the age(less) sufficient english to state proficiency & she does
I use this words to be smart as I don’t work and therefore don’t got a status like u all do
I must feel good because I’m told to feel bad daily what kind of
lore is that anyway?
most people believe

Khaled joined the game and he with Walid duetted stating facts footballing in the sand with a flat beachball holy from the wire above
wire of supplicant grapes
their game and our game consists of tellin us we’re pussyboys in not those words, no good, this, no good, dees no, la

they play with the damned the sunburn hand the sand antpile of humankind the split lip of the gay white camel the rare 30,000 dinar falcon the rare coin the two pence piece the shekel the krona the missing lawrence commodity sands over time

wondereurope ur trash rekindled a fire near Saudi border we collected wood used it to cook tea -
Ali in his ‘montana’ t shirt killing flies told us - yaknow all dees on same hand, what is it? feengers? Yes we have saying, ur feengers is not same, yaunerstan?
I do with the yawner’s tan, but more with sadness now in the world sometimes, in a word -
some are callous or much smaller soft and pink some are cut off some cut or hurt
do hurt
poke the living end oh wrapped around, u say it -
a cock,
u
suck it

Who’s ya sister, IIII

(no one’s sister is real)

we is danced to the melodic sub sahara more precisely to its, “shooooooooo-ooo,” its desert wind
grassy beachyhead god’s wild catholic premonitions and all wrapped in one huge brown kilt of you
pasting me into your dreams last night like a fox taking wet pizza box back to hole you dragged me
to the hope the radiant city of hope I visit sometimes in my sleep straight out of the casket I came
and you were, ‘get on with it,’and also, ‘you are it,’ with hot needles and cramps of the ark of the
covenant you drove the land drover through the solace plane drug peninsula always there before me in the soft desert of rocks and jagged bird beaks the steel of the bird the wind in south london
the pieces the conentrate the energy lack of… the animal lick at the bed’s end.

Who’s ya sister, III

autumn what you have
hold on to brown leaves and crunch them
up kiss of morning dew of it missed so supposing
you’re dead a kiss is a kiss with nothing left to do but
kill the wild four-thousand-eyed slaughterer in the attic or
shoot the snake from a middle distance talk about it (no) no
not in an elevator or ascending stairs all the real beatings aren’t
seen because the coal burns white hot and you don’t remember but
when it slopped onto the floor the orange coal it tore the carpet and in
side the holes I saw many past christmas all the other years I was in the
yellow room with the green lamp with harry and daisy actors of my mind not
the slugs at burberry party (carrion for the subvultures) the cat snooze on the
floor by the bed right now so in the yellow room I span at light speed motionless
in the chair while logs screamed red eyed in the fire, “crisp! crispy! of the studio one!’
(whatever your party was) span deeper to a spot on the yellow wall so I divined myself
into it (though to take any credit for this is in itself anti divinity the pro absurdity of the
Marxist jelly-ite)

the yellow wet I found was my own my mown memory in the actors studio behind cardboard
door and window of hungry harry helping me back easing me back into my light speed chair
of the runner in my corner eye of the white round circles glazed in the black before me like
olives bulbed and white in the fore like plant pustules exploding spores invisible coloured but
saw nothing just felt some warm circle spreader parameter I would not step out of alive and back
on beachyhead

Who’s ya sister, II

story goes we will be on beachyhead slow dance for the macabre skeletons bursting overhead old loose bones rain down send the rabbits running
they all said as though they could come in muttering ‘now’ and wash their hands in the sink while flaking story goes, ‘hello clayton,’ sore ears of the january is ears heard, ‘come, come,’ via this, via that, via viable solution but it’s an emergency and is the password teabag? settled pot down and black burned in the sink

Who’s ya sister, I

Is it because I don’t have real sideburns or that my strange ideas
wash well with colours or
starch a starch substitute constitutes a large part of my knowledge
sensitive it is to right the wrongs of yesteryear
the trick is to puff out your sideburns I have already and spread the wire across
kept all the chickens inside - wrapped myself in a flag and lost a lot of sleep
it is not obvious
there is no telling that no telling that to anyone even if they beg
saved the final dance for you with your arms on on beachyhead whispering
in my arms you will said, ‘I’ve never been excited only when I’m with you I get a crooked feeling and I pull myself through I can’t change x3.’ just like you want me to buried in the dead sand rocks light and burn huge black holes like eyes in the sand sharing old sand of the past in the phoenix desert

O
ne
dir
ecti
on

Of
fal
rep
rod
uc
ed

Tr
ain
ed
me
at

po
wer
red
cor
ps
e
s

us
in
g
electrolytes

Are we shitted underweaar?

I don’t want to help help
the diseased
if you should die…

you should dies because
you are diseased soon
to be deceased is
dragging yourself to
working talking drinking
taking in interesting people
to eat and talk and
drink and talk more
over whether it’s working
at work, should we
solidify it, ancient monument
immortalise ancient green money dollars
shave ourselves alien and barcode every
bitch to fuck I fuck so many human females
I have begun to look like one
marketing strategy look at mark chatting angie
by the water cooler whirlpool in floor sucking
everything into a whole
new age.
HUMAN BEASTS ARE ALL A-BACK-A-WARD:
the priest never says to god,
“Take us off, we are not worthy”,
but panties always do
right before the guilt convulsions

Lov

God’s hand of butter can’t grip you
but still, I’m scared to die
sacred to die and I
have to be alive because there
is no other way

hearts are as many canals
passages, chambers to chambers you want,
collectively, just meat, no ‘One Heart, One Love’,
only numinous, solitary hearts win
it’s what makes them work

and send lonely spores out in the air
you see them all floating looking for you
maybe looking to climb in your nose and down…

fungal love grows hourly, minutely
coup poudre in your face from someone’s heart
in your nose it starts and poof! you’re a corpse
of love already, but you don’t even know it

love corpse chasing cupid’s rotten arrow in your

dog after its own tail - we wade through shit to drink piss

USAved us all

Tumbling 4 U
rich white america gods of the party and world
I’m writing 4 U,
I tumbl 4 u, well off white yank teens I die for u
we are not worthy we are not worthy we are not worthy
we are not worthy we are not worthy we are not worthy
we die for you now and then and always to come it’s a
pleasure and it always will be

A

Who’d give u a clue I’m itchin 2 kiss U?
The wear wolf, oh? chomping bee-strides small shorts in the sun
u can’t put ur arms around It, u can’t isolate the proletariat, u can’t be outside when ur in because
you already are both if you follow we follow
it doesn’t hurt to try but it does, to try is the hardest
safe I am now safe and bored settled and bovine I saw no rain for a month - but a tyre exploded once and they all rushed outside thinking to see a gun wielding man out in the moon -
but I helped French tourists where I could, even a wine waiter husband who worked in eiffel tower, and we felt better, trying
nothing surprise, nothing always, eventually YES
Didn’t summarise at all, didn’t surmise it would be painful, didn’t pick out the godly among thieves, didn’t grind the pepper or udder the goat
verily I did not see the good ones and I did not point them out for there are none

But
I played we played beach boys also pins all over my body as hotness it robed me up good yeah
drove me to the good red logs in the stove, I thought
am I now wearing the robe of fire as I was told I would by Walid because,
‘You (I) no ‘allahuakbar’ - fire’
‘You clothes - fire,’
‘You drink - fire, this no good’
La quais

Walid with ur ten year old face and spindly legs and big sand feet, middle age Arab eyes middlehead,
Saudi protectorate and brain paraplegics Saudi Opera House of the woild/world/wild/walid
ov the wild seven years prison time

soft and hard like Alia, construct of the age(less) sufficient english to state proficiency & she does
I use this words to be smart as I don’t work and therefore don’t got a status like u all do
I must feel good because I’m told to feel bad daily what kind of
lore is that anyway?
most people believe

Khaled joined the game and he with Walid duetted stating facts footballing in the sand with a flat beachball holy from the wire above
wire of supplicant grapes
their game and our game consists of tellin us we’re pussyboys in not those words, no good, this, no good, dees no, la

they play with the damned the sunburn hand the sand antpile of humankind the split lip of the gay white camel the rare 30,000 dinar falcon the rare coin the two pence piece the shekel the krona the missing lawrence commodity sands over time

wondereurope ur trash rekindled a fire near Saudi border we collected wood used it to cook tea -
Ali in his ‘montana’ t shirt killing flies told us - yaknow all dees on same hand, what is it? feengers? Yes we have saying, ur feengers is not same, yaunerstan?
I do with the yawner’s tan, but more with sadness now in the world sometimes, in a word -
some are callous or much smaller soft and pink some are cut off some cut or hurt
do hurt
poke the living end oh wrapped around, u say it -
a cock,
u
suck it

Who’s ya sister, IIII
Who’s ya sister, III
Who’s ya sister, II
Who’s ya sister, I
Are we shitted underweaar?
Lov
USAved us all
A

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Dry Oats from the apocryphal reverend foothill, europe's youngest male reverend

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