01-11-2010, 04:43 AM
here's my house ducked into a room,
i look around: there's my chair,
and my computer is buzzing with joy:
on the screen is a model me,
with emo and a flash, and i look over
the exposure of my integrate: it's all
here with me.
white walls, white white-out in my
artic brain, so many open spaces
to build an igloo.
over there is my chair and there's clothes
on it and on the floor -- everything wants
to lay down with everything, and there's
happy piles of clothes all over. my bed
is all sleeping bagged up with thick a-plastic
fuzzy, and i'm so warm at night.
my camera's on that table,
and the table's on its legs and covering
some books and floor. my camera is my friend,
so today i'll protect him from gray cold clouds,
and sit and watch it keep warm: i do not
exploit my friends.
on the bike, in my room, over there,
is more clothes, cause it's winter
and more clothes go on than what i need
inside, and there's an underwear
on the handlebars -- should i rub my hand
on them or rub them on my face??? i do
not know, cause it's too happy to see
so much of someone else at all. who's
hunders har these at hall?? who's table,
whose bike, whose recherche' du temps,
trouve' ??
i drink my cup empty, and flinger down
on the keys and this is what comes.
so, petre, what was what you gave to allen,
which didn't make him turn you into a shooting star??
and, nathan, how did i fail to light brooklyn batteries
of incanduction, that day in the desert inside that seam?
...
i look around: there's my chair,
and my computer is buzzing with joy:
on the screen is a model me,
with emo and a flash, and i look over
the exposure of my integrate: it's all
here with me.
white walls, white white-out in my
artic brain, so many open spaces
to build an igloo.
over there is my chair and there's clothes
on it and on the floor -- everything wants
to lay down with everything, and there's
happy piles of clothes all over. my bed
is all sleeping bagged up with thick a-plastic
fuzzy, and i'm so warm at night.
my camera's on that table,
and the table's on its legs and covering
some books and floor. my camera is my friend,
so today i'll protect him from gray cold clouds,
and sit and watch it keep warm: i do not
exploit my friends.
on the bike, in my room, over there,
is more clothes, cause it's winter
and more clothes go on than what i need
inside, and there's an underwear
on the handlebars -- should i rub my hand
on them or rub them on my face??? i do
not know, cause it's too happy to see
so much of someone else at all. who's
hunders har these at hall?? who's table,
whose bike, whose recherche' du temps,
trouve' ??
i drink my cup empty, and flinger down
on the keys and this is what comes.
so, petre, what was what you gave to allen,
which didn't make him turn you into a shooting star??
and, nathan, how did i fail to light brooklyn batteries
of incanduction, that day in the desert inside that seam?
...