Thomas Lowe Taylor -- BONE APE TIT - arse cosmologica

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By furcation n’eer within, or horsed outer, I’d acclided her pinty schemo, yet yarded out the funky planes of inattention. (Horse, I.,a-2). Nor fine recline, nay, a pinto inherits them as has, no let in semplo yet asided herein you’d suk’d me plento, then aparted nor the skanky pline, shuck’d, jive’d, a taller musk than you’d afforded into the marks now.

Bloe to dam-nite figger: Your own beginnings are hard approached within tempo and design by unknown participants you’d sunk too far below to knock-‘er-up. Thor not fern. A new appointmento yard-afforded toward the newer skein or fiermo, here! Buttressed and calm, she’s a finer nugget than your ever-chewed formation, now her giant tits flux your designer memory from without fragments, after all, “a man who hates women can’t be all bad” (Foment, ***, I, a-3), nor calm intent a withering force for declination and pursuit as if (duh) AS IF yet occluded increments had not been worth revealing into the summation of your famous loss of character.

I’m a sultan’s risk, yet a hedon, nor a firmer scar on her abdomen. Still you’d been a man abandoned into his how sinking feeling, yet a firmer star not beckoned would not have been intense or outer, other than what was provided by the younger star she’d been a pinto in her musk sent into the world without feeling anything at all in the sentiments you’d saved thus far.

What’s remembered in the silences of the morning unfolding lays about your heart like spinach on the plate smothered with butter and lemon juice. It’s a huff’d inhalant smothering your light inside, a pollutant from the dark star smothering your flame with its own cystic fibrosis of the spirit turning all inside into a sticky mucous substance without poetry or information. Spanky hears your moans and smoothes aside to clear the dusk of its own stars in hand and underway, yet the insubstantial of the moon leans into your smoke like some wandering vine dangling down from the bookcase beside you, and the reeling, celtic hymns squeeze from the speakers’ pneumatic anabactine substances elongate and squirm along the edges of the room, snaking under the rug with a hollow sound.

Introduction of Federal Butt-sniffing Dogs will begin this weekend at all major airports; they are specially trained at undisclosed locations by unidentified informants who have been randomly selected from lists of the Surfer Clans. Held forth like a short story. Consult Homilies, page 331, left column from the bottom of your seeking, a veritable ‘passing beyond’ of intent and pleasure. No mistakes in nature, all signs readable by the eye that sees (seize). You’re no country, to be sure, yet a smother steers aside from hamburger teats twice the size (seas) of all that precede intent into its own oblivion, to be sure, yet sculled internexus floods the viewing platform aparted (apartheid) from extra-polations north and south, a gloved hand strokes the universe, the one poem (unit-verse) from the islands Apotheosis and Foreplai of the left hand of darkness, starkness along the trail “no touching” printed on the hands and lands of the foreign observers declaring a mismatch.

Butt knot for me, no sonnets deride the sunset with misinterpretation on the wings of doves and violins from a plywood sign has structured the light with calm intention, nor arrogant repast (as: seen {scene} again) and the re-passed who’ve been lapped out against the tide no strength as parts the lines between your legs I’d eyed ‘em Haddam suffice as knots noted butt first furs elide and spunto from lower signs raised one chakra at a time she blows and fathoms one suck at a time. Two more corpses found at the back of the train. God comes in the sign of the line, a stroke at the end and you’re home free enough to mark “return” as the ticket to ride. Notes noted: (Assumbrian) Flux to Tine, the history of puns, 1854, Farks and Dunham, London, p. 34 &f. AND (in Houston) The Puncture Wound Ahead, 1973, Bo-Ass Books, The Light, 875-999. Stroke your plennie.

Summery. The long grain winds ahead and sports your own dimensions far apart in sign and tempo made one by the beating of the same heart overall makes the day new from head to toe your own rhymes are forced apart by the tongue in hand she views the scene and spurts ahead no mere manner to the forms and tallow a seeker still.