Maybe I'll say something to myself.
There is a world after the next one. The science book spilled out open onto her open skull, between her forehead and her mind,
And I saw the shining signs recrested under her brows and her hair line.
Cremated amsterdam finest china with wingtipped flowing dragon skin
My dream is to be born on top of a carousel
Blaming little grey personages for topsy-turvy windmill chimes
Kissing all the little lips dawn under
And the top of the building, a house, a restaurant, a café, a shop
Keeper tends his little sheep with his phinger pads
Wanting more than a trickle of economical flagellation flatulence
That kisses the tree cream
Quietly abstract the truth from keeping out of neighborhood fences of grass
Climb through portals of hell and Heaven
Christ becoming the truth with little sideways fingers
Chopping up anchovy livers
Camouflage cannibals running state fair
Pine needle barns
I wish you could find the little person inside of my mind.
He is a grey ghost, but he fights like a higher tiger.
And I cannot quiet the climax of shrimp noodles....
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