dog_anus_poem_196 paste! How many fingers made of white meat am I holding up? There must be trouble. Whenever basil gets snipped the lungs of small farmers deflate like egos of roads not on maps. Take my hand and tell me that I exist for more than one reason. Low sodium, crunchy fabulous. Wings are for those not occupied with the dancing of liquid on a table. The angles are all muffed up, so the fisher points the boat to the east and his day becomes tidier and infinite. Man, this town is like a microcosm of cinnamon strudel in chubby hands. Attempts at ordaining, blacking out formlessly, are welcome. Leave the black lights on. Eat the oats. Like the Whistler at Manfried’s Cove once said, tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeet until you can tweet no more. It’s disgusting. This poem has no future. When it flushes an ethanol-based solution into it’s fitting pipes it’ll be blown away by the secrets of proportion: never leave your rice cakes in rice fields. I have no more water or patience. 021229 ... ever dumbening sandbags_of_wrath 021229 ... ever wright express your glands bop doo doo doo doo ba doo da da da da doo 021229 what's it to you? who go blather from