hands as cold as a porcelain doll left outside all night long. trumpets rolling down to tape halt, hunting horns, lifetimes and limelights, all of it merging, unconvincing. bill named what concept? you’re slack & you don’t query around and you end up sounding ridiculous. a van driving on ice, miss green kicking in at sixty mph, a bucketful of interferences. cold flinching twitches. hands as cold cause of. virginal schrijfblok, except for ten or so pencil adorned pages and some others, evidence of their being tore apart as in parallel worlds. dirty pop waves slowing down gamelan, grinding deaf jams, talk of the day.
is tomorrow our goal, or the well known no-no?
far western bandits drawing figures that hurt. is it your avatar there on display? we could make an expo out of it. just tear out the oranges cos nobody cares. step out of the basket case gundam labeled ‘yourself’ via a green marker, hop hop endless valleys of forever history & yr trawling of dirt abode plunged.
cos i’m not talking to you.
just tear out the oranges.
cos nobody cares.
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This entry was posted by Paolo Ippoliti on Wednesday, March 14th, 2007, at 4:00 pm, and was filed in La Polvere.
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