filament2
Sunday, June 05, 2005
  Letting Strange Brew Flow Into Old Saucers
Why the think tank presses the trigger and my head feels shattered as if it knows the end of no war, end of no availabilities.

Staring at the screen can become a habit, twitching, avoiding everything essential. The tea spills on my thigh, I scream the chocolates fall out of the window. The flowers with their thorns become tired of pretending, presenting their best face. Fire errupts in each lie, ever spoken in this room. My friends sleeping all over the floor, the animal of the forrest having leapt into me and there being no way out of this mess.

Salient features of the Model T of literature, the slambam poetry vending machine - it rhymes, stupid with your middle name, Guaranteed !

Old fools, small whiskers. The world is round, it figures.

When the suit-and-tie has had its buy, we will search for witnesses who can convict the Prosecutor of having vested interests. Of being a moralist. Crass carcass then will not hang from trees, the tres which line the road to your house....
 
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when sparks fly - consistenly, the nature of the filament decides what lights up and what fuses out

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Lining the edge of consciousness with words which behave like timed missiles.

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