Without discrimination, waxing toward focus-- if not waning by now-- aspired in genuine concert, yet wrought so slowly; all but extinguished for this pitiful articulation, I muse over your blood.
Spill, it might-- by chance a delightful, art-like form, but must not, for it is the lashing for that very yield which I can not bare at once. To imagine what might best suit each of you, in adequate manner, and more the burden of a simple mind, I believe there are too few subjects; a mediocrity for the creativity in such-- my fantastical bleeding-- let it affect you: that I concede.
Cradle it, as you might a babe. What do you make of such a thing? readers, bleeders, ye flakes as the faecal scum rotting presently 'neath you. Why not prod at thee as I may--- worthless organism, you are, as I. Consider, bitch: "Hi-ho, Hi-ho". It prefers, for ease of pain. High, whore. White beseeching; what faded Stars' blow. What lien your flow? Q-T-Bill loud while as lien does blow. Sink needle 'bout eighty, forgo. Buttons, pressed, bitch, same thing, over and over, fly right out that door.
Up like “high whore” striped red, white, beseech; what faded Stars' blow. What lien your flow? Q-T-Bill loud while Lien does blow. Sink needle 'bout eighty, forgo. Buttons, pressed, bitch same thing, over n over. Fly right out that door!
Unclassified, therefore without discrimination for my own detest in such an activity, at risk of my own cataplexy, I mustn't dwell here. But, I am pleased by what follows. Perhaps my woman; my interest has all but waned in slow weeping articulation. I muse over your blood, as spill it might-- by chance-- delightful, art-like form, but must not, for it is the lashing for that very yield which I can not bare.
That's what they ask, you know. You know, that query; that anomalous invasion into one's psyche, whereby the inquisitor might say as, “Do you feel suicidal?”. If the response is anything other than ‘no’ (or, some variation thereof), the follow-up inquiry is, “Do you have a plan?”
“[plans], i don't have. I do got a mickey o’ bourbon.”
Indeed, plans: I've never been one for much planning.
However, I do know the whereabouts of a practical bridge.
Yeah, you be reading it, right? you think you know, don't you. Truth is, if you's from /Pee ’eh/, then you probably; might know, precisely the bridge o’ mine.
Plant [or, as rumored, Bonham], in a Led Zeppelin, Houses of the Holy track, The Crunge, I believe did query his audience, rhetorically so it seems, and we might agree, also comically: ‘has anybody seen the bridge? Where's that confounded bridge?’.
Where is that confounded bridge?
I in my kercheif; j george in hawaii
a needle might prick; a dog follows me
one cessation is ceased; not even a mouse
it's time I settle down; like so much poor rap
down where nothing in front of me
it doesn't need blood
it doesn't need breathing
and so years passed
could come thus uncovered
they'll dig their way through
say, “if it weren't for this mud!”