aegean_underground_sea Mahayana what you see| when you are seeing|me| [yOu can swim.wade.even get lost] [but ya never get pruned fingers & toes][whoooooooooo haaaaaaaaaa] 020205 ... the repeater psyki nectar-stained night drips acidic caramel upon the delicate ears of the dreaming vocalist. what she hears as she sleeps deeply is nothing. sounds of the dull collapsing of my veins are inaudible and cannot be heard by her. like ultra-molten lava flowing down the side of a volcano is the lemon which has been never squeezed. i looked at the tree and what i saw was lots of bark. where fake penguins are happy. orange cake frosting is smeared upon the brick wall. could be someone's toothpaste. if orange-colored toothpaste has been invented. but not orange-flavored toothpaste. like silver lipstick, impossible. the vocalist is thinking about flowers and mice and salt. who is the vocalist? i touched her leg once. i saw it. but can they believe there within the shadow that faintly is seen harshly smoking and tired and sleepy and blue. she wants to understand or know vegetables or why the pickles have stolen the pizza that could not grin if swiftly eaten with pitchforks and the glowing green flame. bouncing off of the moderately wispy ceiling, is not the light relected into the plaster less than extreme? purple mental cream, when i saw it limping still around. have you ever been a vampire? fall for a trick or you must crawl for awhile while shirking denial's corn, an empty small clam shell. limping will abound. surrounded by otters. fish aren't keen. then i saw it: waffles and cake. fake plastic lake. some waterfall's great disaster lonelier than thou grass never greener internal love corruption lather and fade. sparkling the twinkle of dust. unwrinkle. unwrinkle. unwrinkle. can of sweet juice can make you unhappier. ablink of the dark. is your eye irritated by the yarn-twisted? yet another day at the good ol' chopping block. wow, my neck really hurts. rotting giraffes aren't so tall. whisper and kiss her. sweet thing. sparks fly, into my windshield. i'm annoyed. your wipers can't clean the molten tar from the cubicle door, but you're not really trying very hard, are you? i'd give a copper nickel for some fresh beefy steaks and 35 100-watt campfires. speaking of stakes and vampires, the sudden impact drove a long automobile. when dost the blood beginneth to spew forth? no sir, i believe your fruitfly is actually over there, wearing the blue shirt. my blue shirt? quitcha yapping, ya sweetchie pie splatcherer. plop goes the easel after i smacked it with my trusty broom-o-matic. would you eat lime warts for a buck? 020409 what's it to you? who go blather from