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Written by Lynk

Challenges

I just have to say if you are going to hold a challenge there is no reason to get nasty with folks. If they do no write to the potential you seek or wholly fit the criteria is there really any need to be nasty towards them.? Writers are going out of their way to try and express themselves here in a free manner; perhaps unedited; and certainly not ready for some kind of publication. When I enter a challenge it is not seeking to waste someone's time or take a stab at mocking their prompt. I do not write to win prizes. I do not set out to please the audience. I write to connect and to practice the craft; which I would go as far out a limb as possible in assuming that most authors here are doing the same. If you think mine is thee best - great! If not, just say a simple thanks for entering. I think we all experience enough rejection in our writing that we do not need any more. Thank You. 

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Written by Lynk
Challenges
I just have to say if you are going to hold a challenge there is no reason to get nasty with folks. If they do no write to the potential you seek or wholly fit the criteria is there really any need to be nasty towards them.? Writers are going out of their way to try and express themselves here in a free manner; perhaps unedited; and certainly not ready for some kind of publication. When I enter a challenge it is not seeking to waste someone's time or take a stab at mocking their prompt. I do not write to win prizes. I do not set out to please the audience. I write to connect and to practice the craft; which I would go as far out a limb as possible in assuming that most authors here are doing the same. If you think mine is thee best - great! If not, just say a simple thanks for entering. I think we all experience enough rejection in our writing that we do not need any more. Thank You. 
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Define Poetry using Prose Essay Format Only. No Fiction. 75 - 150 words. Mass tagged posts will call for automatic disqualification.
Written by Lynk

Visions of Drafts [because I Cannot Draw]

To define poetry would be impossible. Or perhaps perfect. I mean, after all, one must use poetry in order to define it... Like explaining water with water.

It is simple. Original. As it ever-reflecting - changes.

Writing that format the translation of thoughts, structured as such, to greater capture said thoughts and present them in a manner which translates mood, emotion, story, or song; historically accounts that poetry derived from songs. And that rhythm and rhyme are easier to remember. 

Somewhere in written records, converted pictures and symbols, letters thus become words; not that our current use of language cannot be viewed as merely pictures or symbols; just, that it has evolved and been so refined to such letters, and so innate that we never much of think as the alphabet as awesome little pictures.... creating pictures.

Skimming drafts, tingles automatically transform our minds to visions. Ceaselessly flowing endless interpretations.      

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Define Poetry using Prose Essay Format Only. No Fiction. 75 - 150 words. Mass tagged posts will call for automatic disqualification.
Written by Lynk
Visions of Drafts [because I Cannot Draw]
To define poetry would be impossible. Or perhaps perfect. I mean, after all, one must use poetry in order to define it... Like explaining water with water.

It is simple. Original. As it ever-reflecting - changes.

Writing that format the translation of thoughts, structured as such, to greater capture said thoughts and present them in a manner which translates mood, emotion, story, or song; historically accounts that poetry derived from songs. And that rhythm and rhyme are easier to remember. 

Somewhere in written records, converted pictures and symbols, letters thus become words; not that our current use of language cannot be viewed as merely pictures or symbols; just, that it has evolved and been so refined to such letters, and so innate that we never much of think as the alphabet as awesome little pictures.... creating pictures.

Skimming drafts, tingles automatically transform our minds to visions. Ceaselessly flowing endless interpretations.      
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Written by Lynk in portal Stream of Consciousness

Tails

crap. well click click up the hill we going. Outpouring some unedited write for reasons and of course cuz they want to subliminally feed and nurture us into warriors --unite the clans! shuffle to.... every stone, every penny flipped in a fountain...too much -and, but, we battling for supremacy against the dead souls. what's the point. it's all been done before. since we have too much response...ha! I so shell out my masterpiece. remember the access soundtrack, click-grab drag-drop like google rolling earth around; and, for inspiration... twist the listen to #foreverlongingthegoldensunsets so for now ..but I'll rewrite this, the screenplay backwards in a week so like a hidden driver that excites the gypsum panel and produces the white noise, sound masking will be _ _ _ _ ... Unforunately,, oh how in my worst groan I gooo...alright who's taking my shit today? yes. yes. yes. there's my awful bitch. Mickey D's. they got awful stalls and power driven toilets that will flush this stanky annoyance right out the air...silence the crap that scats in spite of the struggle and of the gory rising within; instills a determination _yea. I like that. but not alone. indeed. should I put in a suggestion box.? --change the ending. --rework the chorus. ---move the bridge. axe the third verse.  An: go go go. up it built right in. imagine that. u like? Click. You want to lift me up? Comment. I'm just getting started so any praise well u know what it means..

..    well then. With all the famous new sense that everyone who thinks needs one....conceited presence that's naked as a poets soul; offering peaks at some monstrous cojones. or - images we just don't want on our conscience. or not ready for...don't look. ok, cuz it is messy within the nature..rrr.___al order to things. maybe we should. oh no. no they didn't know that yet. or can't picture the splattered rust. or maybe just maybe it could not be held in long enough to become like some epic junk packed into a ship and sand blasted to stream live from the orange moon. wait! yes we are! so. makes ya think just about anyone could make a scene filling in the gaps about how rude D's was for me battling a case to hav legal expenses built right into every insurance coverage..."just another line item to the initial contract,"...a teacher of sorts. with sense enough to to make things much cheaper and more effective than a bunch of business jargon that he was so close to, an agreement that amounted to about all that crap I just flushed away like it was nothing. but quite similar. those ideas hav to go somewhere just the same. to mention his own affinity ... "ween the glass of the world." so similar solar powered side ideals within this construction of a great soul, would hav occurred. but, as when I said, "we in the wrong business"--"oh don't worry Lynk. I am not quitting my day job lol"... basically, that's all i heard. cuz every man always trying to make the discovery of the shattered; and piece it back together. "yea, let's attract the sun. great idea...." yet, And that which ended that pursuit, inevitably. falling to sleep; yet is that which we already told. and thus concerned himself more with transforming any.  him. me, plans for half robots but BOOM! Hall explodes! the hall! sketches. drawings. diagrams and schematics gone.!! up in smoke. everything! they were disappearing before they had any chance to awfully grace the air.... So he made me parts from memory. from oh but two-tone drawing/writing this world/age/generation has never seen before. antique paper with ink?. all that remained after the fact; so brace for the amazing by the way his first line read. ...ok wait. no. first. this. I tell u what; that brown mans journal.. the gem. the peace. the answer to everything. the switch. the cure. the song. the shuffle landed on. that sometimes I wish I had been given. the damn thing. as if inherited. Damn the thing that yet had so many deals consolidate; all sorts of issues into like a system that contained one head end for all controls? grasping for it so hooooollllllddd on - "it's just a pair of contacts but when they connect/signal"..the man was a genius. "switch. bam! we on the fuckin M_O_O_N!!"

#hotwednesdays 

#thanksforragin 

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Written by Lynk in portal Stream of Consciousness
Tails
crap. well click click up the hill we going. Outpouring some unedited write for reasons and of course cuz they want to subliminally feed and nurture us into warriors --unite the clans! shuffle to.... every stone, every penny flipped in a fountain...too much -and, but, we battling for supremacy against the dead souls. what's the point. it's all been done before. since we have too much response...ha! I so shell out my masterpiece. remember the access soundtrack, click-grab drag-drop like google rolling earth around; and, for inspiration... twist the listen to #foreverlongingthegoldensunsets so for now ..but I'll rewrite this, the screenplay backwards in a week so like a hidden driver that excites the gypsum panel and produces the white noise, sound masking will be _ _ _ _ ... Unforunately,, oh how in my worst groan I gooo...alright who's taking my shit today? yes. yes. yes. there's my awful bitch. Mickey D's. they got awful stalls and power driven toilets that will flush this stanky annoyance right out the air...silence the crap that scats in spite of the struggle and of the gory rising within; instills a determination _yea. I like that. but not alone. indeed. should I put in a suggestion box.? --change the ending. --rework the chorus. ---move the bridge. axe the third verse.  An: go go go. up it built right in. imagine that. u like? Click. You want to lift me up? Comment. I'm just getting started so any praise well u know what it means..

..    well then. With all the famous new sense that everyone who thinks needs one....conceited presence that's naked as a poets soul; offering peaks at some monstrous cojones. or - images we just don't want on our conscience. or not ready for...don't look. ok, cuz it is messy within the nature..rrr.___al order to things. maybe we should. oh no. no they didn't know that yet. or can't picture the splattered rust. or maybe just maybe it could not be held in long enough to become like some epic junk packed into a ship and sand blasted to stream live from the orange moon. wait! yes we are! so. makes ya think just about anyone could make a scene filling in the gaps about how rude D's was for me battling a case to hav legal expenses built right into every insurance coverage..."just another line item to the initial contract,"...a teacher of sorts. with sense enough to to make things much cheaper and more effective than a bunch of business jargon that he was so close to, an agreement that amounted to about all that crap I just flushed away like it was nothing. but quite similar. those ideas hav to go somewhere just the same. to mention his own affinity ... "ween the glass of the world." so similar solar powered side ideals within this construction of a great soul, would hav occurred. but, as when I said, "we in the wrong business"--"oh don't worry Lynk. I am not quitting my day job lol"... basically, that's all i heard. cuz every man always trying to make the discovery of the shattered; and piece it back together. "yea, let's attract the sun. great idea...." yet, And that which ended that pursuit, inevitably. falling to sleep; yet is that which we already told. and thus concerned himself more with transforming any.  him. me, plans for half robots but BOOM! Hall explodes! the hall! sketches. drawings. diagrams and schematics gone.!! up in smoke. everything! they were disappearing before they had any chance to awfully grace the air.... So he made me parts from memory. from oh but two-tone drawing/writing this world/age/generation has never seen before. antique paper with ink?. all that remained after the fact; so brace for the amazing by the way his first line read. ...ok wait. no. first. this. I tell u what; that brown mans journal.. the gem. the peace. the answer to everything. the switch. the cure. the song. the shuffle landed on. that sometimes I wish I had been given. the damn thing. as if inherited. Damn the thing that yet had so many deals consolidate; all sorts of issues into like a system that contained one head end for all controls? grasping for it so hooooollllllddd on - "it's just a pair of contacts but when they connect/signal"..the man was a genius. "switch. bam! we on the fuckin M_O_O_N!!"

#hotwednesdays 
#thanksforragin 
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Written by Lynk

You dont say

You can go all day without eating

But only minutes without breath

Tempting soul translations again

Within this thesaurus

Like indecipherable words

Of rigor mortis

Of my own plaque eye grips

Claustrophobic [girths]

Again i cannot stress

How much it . . . .

So lets lets make it soundless

Without breath and without bread

Lets choke to death

And be fearless instead

If just one minute

You can go

Or all day but only

Without which

Cannot be said. 

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Written by Lynk
You dont say
You can go all day without eating
But only minutes without breath
Tempting soul translations again
Within this thesaurus
Like indecipherable words
Of rigor mortis
Of my own plaque eye grips
Claustrophobic [girths]
Again i cannot stress
How much it . . . .
So lets lets make it soundless
Without breath and without bread
Lets choke to death
And be fearless instead
If just one minute
You can go
Or all day but only

Without which
Cannot be said. 
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Trident Media Group is the leading U.S. literary agency and we are looking to discover and represent the next bestsellers. Share a sample of your work. If it shows promise, we will be in touch with you.
Written by Lynk in portal Trident Media Group

Wherever Two or More are Gathered

IN THAT BOOK SMELL

of attic insulation

stir,

with a hardened tailbone say

and spread knees

straddled across the joists,

face boroughs into fine particles,

and through the ceiling

#andthemagicmusicmakesyourmorningmood

soundtrack airwaves

of my muffled little presses down

into the heavy blown clumps,

intake coughs with twinkles swirled

dirty harsh snowy

#glitteringprizes and #endlesscompromises

the spoke; stuffed-in cavity,

my body too just wasted

sweat cracks

hair slicked in the exposure

of myself contorted;

rub the heel of my arm real hard.

Into my skull-squeezed urination,

near impossible.

Hold

the tied junction box together,

cap the wires and arc connections

slipped underneath surfaces say

summer lumps perversely; thighs now and my side

oh the one on my side…

cranked lunges; my abdomen reverses

juices shove the clumped bladder

only muscles; and every grip

of the parted veins,

down my arms and knuckles glistened

scrawny mutt, portrayed

some unrechargeable instinct,

when I did not want to die yet.

I held the how to get energy

featured through spectacle layers

and careful enclosed breaths;

spoke about in other works

and like in fiberglass, those estranged glitters

hard-tickled skin-warm cold enveloping,

fueled the kidneys beginning to break down;

harden in the smothering itch

penetrated tight ball scratchy gasps,

the nasal throat swallowed,

centered inhalations connected

the nose throat tickled lungs writhed;

sore, wheezed slightly,

almost silently respiring phlegm,

the chest, the heart stiff

yet slower;

for sustaining unto the end of the day.

I pinched my dick.

Squeeze the shit

Literally glittered fierce inside corners

prickled eye lashes say,

the nostril edges well in the hairs,

back of neck scrapes, terribly scratched,

covered forearms, itchy, irritate,

shins, hands, fingers, inflammation,

crumbs of scratched steel wool turd

abrasively

all the way to those areas,

stuff constantly pressed,

irritated, nibbled chills, harsh, brushed,

destroyed tennis shoes;

well the sparkles decades black behind strips of lathe,

plaster splooged between dark joists

real stained, begrimed;

smeared sooty touches;

boogars up my nose blacken,

hairs filthy

twirled out on toilet paper or brown papertowel lengths

away, in that stained grease area

McDonalds. ‘or Wendy’s’.

The subcity wiresags where

Wherever I ate, tried,

clean a little breathing room,

dirtied up fast-food sinks into my mouth,

the same way at night

bathed in dark ring

old crow white cast-iron tub,

the water level, remained.

My step-father yelled at me,

“clean that fuckin rin afterward!”

I loved the way he pierced ‘fuckin’

I can say it the same..

skied on glucose or saccophin

or whatever the fuck it is.

Pissed off diabetic thrashing plates into walls

paint jars and frustration

never striking my mother

but when I’d forgettably rinse the tub;

just go wipe the thing.

I shrugged and slumped and sunk

since I just wanted to sit there

after such a day in an attic

or ripping walls from those real 2x4 studs,

the old hunks of lumber

actually measuring 2 inches by 4;

living all day in that air,

the scrunch right?

in the crotch of some home

in the attic

chewed down each bottom

of my tired lungs

full of insulations’ infectious microorganisms,

or tearing off shingles, taking down walls.

I worked.

I work.

Hard.

Which sucks because my body will not

Let me.

Piled up junk

in my jittery nerves

haphazardly

felt for nails and splinters

along material and debris.

I stepped stressfully, easily

and steadily within chewed shoes,

prickly loads of jagged piles

carried, wheeled into a dumpster

over the bed of my Dad’s old junk truck

at the back of the drive at his home;

remodeling company,

which kept me part-time busy,

take THIS into an old Ford F150

steering the wheel crooked

in unordained drives

straight just high all day and blistered,

hit, acid phased in country gazes

no one will ever see

but once pounding nails through deckboards

during a job he wanted to reuse them.

I come horrible, messed,

cluttered with things

all so piled, a narrow path slipped through,

but to kind of lead me out

to this balcony

where I blocked out pages

once in awhile; I come to say

HERE. This is me!

Then on my bed

fell with laziness

spreading on everything

the pages between the bed made

across the floor

and the same even over my dresser,

sheetless, pee stains I expanded;

oh the clothes,

sprawled atop themselves in my room.

I had half my life every other weekend

until high school

when my Dad could not handle me and my brother

anymore

(but actually wanted to have the house

to himself and mmmultiple girlfriends

without us teenagers around)

but there.

I wrote paint chips littered

beyond the balcony

and the dealership

well in the past.

I got him help, out, my Dad.

I just quit.

Afternoons without analysis,

real ties, a clock or bills,

many changes or moves,

a period far-gone, reoccurring,

come full away by lives between;

they were unalike,

always urged

slow progression,

me,

writing wherever you want me to world.

I stayed.

Begged myself

stuck with old tales

too wise and well established

to really know truths let alone

fresh material (the girl turning her hair up into her face..

oh quit thinking of me thinking of…)

, the sense of discovery and failure;

wore away;

like a handsaw through an LVL.

Make THIS what everyone expects.

My generation understands;

remember;

capture THIS thing that is mine

scattered wicked sharp pieces

–proof of life—dust in sunlight,

Flash light, lead light;

because once, one long……

in the foreshadows upon Time,

I rippled wild in penetration

and tangent eagerly like a sidestreet

turned inside the person I am today;

and the way the world refracted

or reflected very bent,

mania placed ahead

like the past odd nostalgia

ruled the future

exposed in attic dust

revealing exposed skeletal structure,

shell of the original Oak Grove

–2 homes I lived in, where I lived,

under construction

plastic hung across many arches

and door openings

of the living quarters

my Dad hammered away

in shadows a-and light

in summer’s when

#iwannaholdinthehandinsideyou

temporarily but by dreams and desperations,

some acknowledgment

— “unadjustable triangles,”

with outer braces, technically

French kissed the beginning

and curved steel

To most computer drafters, blips,

specific types by erasing lines,

evaporating clicks molding artgum

with nonuniform curvatures too,

the tales for miscues

mine childhood

claymade in the artgum

into starshaped figures

into ‘rubberband-men’

excluding. Real cough up

muster in a measurement,

comparison to the architect’s scale,

“ever present persistence that becomes a skyscraper,”

mere child’s play erecting the atmosphere;

but pitch aside calculators

when figuring scales,

the engineer reluctantly works

through a keyboard

template

in the heart of the smudgeless drafting.

Brush.

Sweep away.

Clear visualization,

the possible imaginations

craning great structures around

with fingers hooked to a pale

that way

stroked the old free-hand lettering

bestow orthographic

projected in the pencil sharp literature

of an auxiliary typed textbook,

such constructional communications

be axonometric.

Would all these ideas become without me?

this inside head all regenerated

in golden coincidences asleep

or shake headaches out,

these emotions fueled,

engrossed by some degree by some girl

I will stop thinking of someday

But today; but too young

Change the subject

awaiting dinner,

Burger King or Long John Silver’s maybe,

the fries tasted like flies smell

landed back into my youth

over and over; to forget her eyes

reflecting over some sneeze-guard

every place we ride along to

there is one I must find

and here is another silent eyeing

in the protected buffet light-warmed food,

inside a stripshop developed mall corner

of wired places amidst parking lots;

silently wherever,

the depressed background music

I finally feel along somehow

in the same steps my world here,

at 8 or 10, 12, sometime then,

tears away ‘hanIcan’tfightthisfeelinghennymore’

as my Dad started up the new Ford F150

and she half-looks i-mee leasving too

with her own family.

I began telling myself thereafter

on the rides home

that voice coming alive world,

‘yeah said not much at dinner’

on the ride home

Dad

we….

And so on like similar dust masking through

sludge of mucus accumulated

blown-in insulation

choked all the time in this world,

finish, they will never swallow…

Like real good succulent pieces of literature

novel classic anti-lock suppression

of anxiety and enthusiasm;

when, upon entering or re-entering

such eloquence;

the story changes endlessly

undiscovered due to sweet innocence

fresh eyes; this day is hers.

A place never existed

before the advent flamed squints

caste plain in the sunrise

of like a miniature half tweezed reanimation

unfurled, the tunnel distributions

of new sort of artistic skill,

the adept ability,

speed up the buttons,

draw the finest schematics on prints,

scrolls zoom in and out for years

then admiring, watch him

wrested hook of the wheel sort of bent

concaverd and overlapped;

so the hand just dangles

zestfully in that assumption of appeasing,

the mindset

that always ensues the story,

the relevance of fiction,

that fact, people will talk about what you do

-----while mine has this renaissance

Bible images even before the rocket scientist!

Visions sunk in the webcast,

scrolls of mouse, rolls etched, graphics

of walls of while my old dad aged the system,

sort of oozed and fingered the living part of me

nearly outside

dead, parts piliferously gruesome,

this may take 30- years to complete;

but in 30 years will be obsolete.

Shredded

sheered

pulverized innards

skulked here

empty,

needed expulsion;

and thus retracted tension

puppet string, yo-yo in the whole

world, the whole way one is attached

to themselves

on the inside,

so autistic tight maneuvering,

anatomy performs before the eyes

but the movie inside is missing something

I will never create.

#coldoutside_burnsagreatbigholeinmyheart

Express the world

through all one instance,

movie quotes, speakers everywhere

innate notes everyone thought

gone world, just gone on

while trying to go on live,

invent such

to survive

this mutation

or throbbing best side of myself

happy

oh Hope

oh universe of our country;

but chips all glass,

this place

ever knicked in the exact same place

memories go;

as if they should be somewhere

because they matter;

they have gathered unevenly;

unwind the low release

and spider-walk plots

ewww modern pallet like paintings

incurred in the supply and demand,

overwhelming population;

yet only made worthy

by reproducing them,

by hand of metaphysical adjunction,

soft arechitectural surreality

rolled rubberbanded accumulating

for the streets’ new artist

dashing relays

uncoiling or overloads connecting

with outstretched baton

wedged to their soul in the face

of modular mews

like a website museum;

yet sucking balloons in the back bedrooms

of that airy feeling

makes me feel this syndrome,

this disorder

is only a rubix-cube combination

from being solved.

The air mattress, furniture,

unfortunate mokney-see monkey do

hood through

like a show dog through stakes, slithered

the disrespectful eye contact anymore

never backs down,

even elders do it,

the conversations bind closed doors,

infamous journeys of entrepreneurs

and elevated dispersings,

money I cant imagine,

the midset of being rich

decisions that don’t have any concern

for the amount it costs upon them

decisions made by folks

unaffected by the ones they make

[opiod epidemic – blackmarket Mercurio made..]

unbearable panic

deep within these great

staring eyes.

My mind utters, fumbles

because it’s still here.

The glum blockage

lacks continuance.

View inside of me, goes to such distances,

wants to push, but I only have so much.

Stamina hollow screams suck over confines

upon some established fool

all huge and ready;

then I failed so many tests

with such involuntary shame

like before her, today

I built up the dream

now disappointed

balloon that cannot be tied

to a feeling

Tom Cruise ended Interview with a Vampire.

Rolling Stones back to the old life,

the old routines

vagrant dwelling upon cold rainy planet

places I kept thinning

rolls over into a few mortal decades,

something other than one of the ones

that always leaves behind intentions,

every finish beginning my studio parturitions

as the radio goes off air

or dead air drown, this hangover,

death’s long…..wait.

A night before this desire

got up to change the world,

cramp down,

so low slow pancreas just gould ewww

keep pace with infinitesimal altering history

and dust –smack! Breaths in this place;

yet stuck in the process, creation,

meaning of poetry indescribably,

harmlessly catches

in these sunlit flickers,

cilia in the corner of my eyes,

but grazes of rabies in little airbubbles

release from villi disintegrated

into space.

Via my eyes! Into the air, just

…I can hardly….oh believe

I would ever have heard Oasis

or the initial album of Tool

or MAzzy up without a haggard lifestyle

of such a torturing,

skin vacuumed against my insides,

concrete gets solidified

failing to flow,

my legs become dry

the way dandruff flake;

like in the 13, or 14, 15 year olds

who went to see the doctor

about some acne

and straight shocked,

snapped at me that

there was absolutely nothing he could do.

With this near allergic

but more intolerable

all itched real unnatural

coarse synthetic, fiberglass distractions,

will there ever be a Time

when particles won’t bite?

alligator mouth rows of teeth

in the canals

tickles tear out, curl, supple sucks

of inner cheeks biting chews

pressurized

together by tongueing

the whole mouth gritty

with little snorts vacantly swallowed,

process my own self

gummed up closer and closer

to eating myself to pieces inside;

knowing all ambitions

my matchbox reverses

and over and over,

across the floors

restart the precise appeal

down the carpet roadways

for moments edged just right;

to write in the exact moments

bells ring… displeased,

but I went through life

in US Olympic dreams upset;

but when you would think of me

in the best country in the world,

in the most powerful,

in would-be favored,

in the way cheese stomachs

grosse literally

bites down

bugs

liver and sardines

poops

that makes a smell curious,

crowded adulate,

that death everyone…..

Think…

#lookuptoseetheweaknessinthesky

On both sides

and with barely squeezed go

so incandescent

between THIS

comes out like the sun squints

a cinnamon scent of some grand lost memory

recovered in the eternity,

graced,

when the world leaves the planet,

occurs,

holds,

hyperventilating,

the first smooth thighs of a girl fed by the 90s;

which changed

nothing

except introduced metro-movement

like blackholes in the incredible whirlpooling

everyone inside sneaky attics;

mm goes

gets outta here.

With feces desiring those thighs

crammed solid hypnotic strobes of light

unbutton down in the wrong dimension,

the wrong part of the light.

I entered when I was supposed to

look beyond.

The simple skies overcome

detrimental pinch of radii

enclosed asshole, fueled,

my soul twisted,

turned twilight,

backed such stimulations

that radiated sinks

into the way I can anchor up

and sweep away gusts of oversprays

without hesitation;

then send you into this place

where my heart endlessly compressed

sweet beams perpetually dispensed

for the way girls eyes alone

bottom out and get enough, yearns

to catch at these fast-food places,

scarlet patches, named this book such

after a young oh ugliness

before you world…..turned over grunts

like there was more ineffable windows

down along the road, and such

it’s a comin

brushed charismatic

suddenness.

Glances the sky just

twinged

down………….

from the rooftops,

formulaic interacting lost lucrative luster,

a girl wants what a wasted quiet changes,

no. focus

---- the contrast language

stumbled out my head

in the easier communication

from my tired irreplaceable

broken resurfacing

for Olympic gold;

aha! pen scrapes,

rubs against page, every detail,

wears you out in charges

reacting to them. Awaiting

---the poet Laurette podium

-- return and take,

life away

in one powerful awful

and extremely exhausting

leave in the upstairs garrets

in the attics, vanish

me sparkled

glided

inklings

and gradually drained desire

for some softness of snow,

it seemed picturesque.

veins of frequency

modulation, the airwaves

‘butI’mnotleavinlessyoucomewithme’

reiterate,

‘rideitonbabay’

this sort of point of view

thing

graced upon me

but by mere scents

I cannot explain

and no objects can show my tingles

over the scarless faded eternity,

the lesions,

the centers of wherewithal

so utterly possessed or obsessed

with getting THIS right;

satiate the reason here

for my static electrocuting

joints

breathing bended lightning bolts

connected to the zig-zag dotting

jagged certain stars

neverending and whitelighted,

spiderweb cranium tearing out

adulations I cant otherwise

visibly, end.

To thunderstorms

head slipping raindrops

landed tingles upon the cowlick

lament the speed of sound

cable, wire in one

just cracked to the roots of absolution

so I need to train myself too

for the written word equivalent

as if I don’t contain infinities,

crack fake palm spreading eggs

in my stream of conscious

that

‘Ikeepwaiting-hewtilthatday-butitainteasy-youknowitainteasy’

and the unattainable past

meets up with me when I write;

as if the only old thing left is writing,

as if the only old understanding of mortality

can be achieved and sensed

or understood in remains of creativity

of the language shredded up softly ancient

and quietly weird for the sake of weird

to maybe get lucky

and fortunate

because who really knows the past

and the right words to capture

the true lump of crap

hairstanding

every day

life

in whatver miniscule time period,

the Romans themselves

were terrified of apocalypse;

but that never come

with something that just plain old sucks

and makes absolutely no sense

with jagged shards

contorted in color schemes

of brown languid gray

contracted deep

like metals or modern day ice sculptures

buzzed, sawed

then photographed

then melted away

Beware the simple kind words,

tricky little buggers, bastards,

their effects screams greater

than milltary strategy

that draw the past shaped likes maps

and focused widescale views

of planet earth

in the hemispheres

perfectly divided

before our sinuses breathed forevers

and more; softly gazed dreamings

big flaking lively hovered

in puny insignificant multitiude,

with a prowess to muzzle

reproaching answers

arguing rhetoric

provided insight simply

endeavors ponder, fascinate

the primitive heart withtin

places awful confusion

can and will back into evolution

innate

intellectual;

grasp the liquidity of elements

in the atmosphere,

gradually circulates

in warm inhalation

continuously filtering oxygen

and sunlit particles

like humidity of elements

in the atmosphere,

gradually circulates

in part warm inhalation

continuously filtering

heavily softness

disposition

a wet t-shirt feels the mirage

of vapors

condense into planet earth

world,

melting spots

indetectably against the skin

of where no description

or scientific method

necessarily makes the gelatin spring

much clearer

to the miraculous respiration

sloshing exhales of those elements

nearly insurmountable

on about how grandly moist

the restless realm

restored phonemics

attempting to match the experience

the moors past

that went out when the light obliterated

blinks like a bubble

contained, no substance or soul

meant

nothing

to the landscape

terrain

poof

pin prick and poof

restored then again

every now and then

I go go go push myself

eating with my waist line shriveled

I go in a hurry

amazingly with cramps

slowing down continuous work

only hunger grumbles and shakes

and stuff but overeating

self-assured flows

begun before the pain

had released my body upon one recent great

heave

into the toilet

so I go fast

walk real fast

devour the diarrhea

biting and swelling

dog shit in-between

brand new sneaker soles

splattered

the great wasting further

than I had already been.

Destined flushed ill-feeling

swamped

fatigue and tingles

always tingles

and terrible equilibrium

black and white squares

in the eye corners

that vanish when I try to see them

like the particles preset

settle Time falling into place

everything for the balance

of the universe to remain

long enough before and after me

‘rememberallthosenigthsIcried’

before and after the stones

hauled around vacancy

polops in the inexplicable windings

collapsed hoses

anus

in the whole way through,

tired sphinctors

overwrought, slouched in fecal matters

held up for days literally

voluntary

purposely

perhaps proves a point

though I can’t imagine

the discomfort mine vacancies

black air smeared x-rays,

smudged liver organs

in those damn mediums

never full or empty

the lower portion swirls of purls

but be careful

you don’t

shove or push

--see if it will solidify

choke up urination

just hold it

hold

impacted piss

just a little longer

to reach more of the day

it will curl back inward

roll itself up stirred

liquid lethargy

of twirling perspective

down over and over fully collapsing

hung in the balance

slouched or slumped

the unnatural human.

Send me you flowers in December

No disrespect but you lifted my bones

crawling through homes

into their attic dusts

and wall interiors

gutting properties for the dimes

of present survival

so where the neck attaches

to shoulders

whiplash returns

on chilled cloudy days

almost enters the weighty gray

sky-compacted encompasses

atop my head thump

biting into the point of pinch

in every readjustment

around the shoulders and neck

and head

hunch

backing my boney presence

curls up that point

slumped sneaks flashes pains

around the inside edge of my scapula

and like them old action figures

wrestlers

feel though torpedo shaped

transformed

with my head struck, in the crotches of attics

abrasive embroidery crosstitched

like a shirt tag grown within skin

there

threading to the bone

this melting across my whole backside

head and neck

so I cannot stand straight

let alone ingore the hold

the rockhard hold

shit of that which should go down

looks good smells good tastes good seems good

to my withered body

emaciated shell

here to be

all that goodness

wherever it is desired

and assumes cramp or crave,

natural shakes and deteriorations,

something artificially coated

and blocking

the offering that just seems

like I should be able to insert

break down

without a second thought

eat and run

into translucent triangles

and parallel bars

tough spins: give them what I got

and they will never sin again

-- the world once grew up

so fastly in eagerness

of independence

so much

that kids

just a few years

just reached their twenties,

purchased perfect new models

of vehicles

and bought homes

things only a generation beforehand

needed

half their life to acquire

while just before that

they barely had lights to illuminate

while a great dizzy ringing in my ears

almost airhorns

but never grabs my dull attention

span

I begin to near curl over and cannot fill fast enough

so I just gag

real hard

about the hunger

penetrating the crevices

the particles settle

they are stinging

up my throat now

and shivering my forearms

lower back and adrenal glands

heart

grow too fast

or within my own existence

that does not belong here

yet the divining rod

magnetic cling

dive into the seas of communication

that everyone has become obsessed with

conversation

holds more value

than anything else

for the human spirit

the ability to prove my mind

and I am stuck

barely able to eat

forced myself

just because my gut says

I am hungry

like conversation

to me anymore

worthless

blather that would be easier

to grow

from were it flushed down the toilet

the wizkids are crosshaired

in the CAD

working the mechanics

of tomorrow’s etched whiteprint

walltypes to save themselves

and immovable dying

coagulated muscles

those fierce cramps

you see athletes sting to the air

support their calf

far away from the agony

and wrenched colorful bizarre possibility

of amputations

in a slick shocking moment

hydrated

in these conditions fermenting

what might considerably flash

and rise up

in how I go about perpetually

in the intrepid position upon earth

with a wasting dorsal

with urges unable to stay on my toes

ahead of

everything.

I have been around

and all that I know is that

THIS

has been all that I have

been around;

my entire life

pinched thyroid

because of the juices

pinching themselves

to expel from the claustrophobic girth

growing me unfulfilled

my adulthood never fattened from the fuel

but not too fill out just that the day

requires too much energy

my face instead dissolves

at their ends

as chills instead

of power

just as when I seem to bend too far

and a rib gouges backwards

in myside maunevering

out of the crotch there

but still holding the pee

too long

backed up

the waste eating across

my lower belly

waistline

which never released

enough or everything

almost immediately

forced to the tip of a kind of

funnel of my canals

everything sucks

dries the soil

riverfront trees

fires flames formations

with the omniscience to predict

the repetition of a radio song

or music video

to follow with foresight

or déjà vu

in the milliseconds

of one song dissolved

faded in another’s

worn out

ductwork that at times

replaces a different melody

but usually the same atmosphere

pulling the stomach just like

I been doing for a purpose

for hours the soreness remains

onward even though I just woke up

the tired holding

the wedged relax

loosen the trapped creases of gas

in as the world stares

prepares the persons inside adjacent

the mirrored apartments

unpinchable pressure

from within

to thwart attempts

fill the car with oil

so I have to suspend pouring

and hold instead the running elements

thorough structures

some kind of performance

shrinks me

so I have no room for

her

overwhelming shots of squirts

and anger

really anger

again

press play

AND IN THAT BOOK SMELL

of attic insulation,

stirs a hardened tailbone, say,

spread on your knees

straddled across ceiling joists,

face boroughs into fine particles,

and through the ceiling

#andthemagicmusicmakesyourmorningmood

soundtrack airwaves

muffled in little presses down

into the heavy blown lingers,

cough with twinkles

swirled harsh snow

#glitteringprizes and #endlesscompromises …yeah -the everlasting shadows from the frayed wedges of my fragile consciousness and framework; in a cavity, my body sweat in cracks, hair slicked self contorted; rub the heel of my palm real hard into my skull, here..hoh boy here it goes….squeeze impossible holds of the tired junction box, uncap the wires and slip surfaces tickling as this telephone wire sparks. Shit. There is too much story to….. Follow down my arms and knuckles glistened glitters, glistening fierce inside corners prickled, eye lashes dripped, the nostril edges welled in the smeared sooty touches; boogars blackened, hairs too and gobs of filthy breaths twirled out on toilet paper or brown papertowel lengths in McDonalds, ‘or Wendy’s’ (wherever I ate lunch, and tried to clean a little breathing room) How will I make it to lunch today? Then it blooms #brightantenneabristlewiththeenergy….Some rechargeable instinct that I did not want to die today. So spectacular; through layers of careful enclosed breaths..fiberglass estranged glitters and hard skin-warm cold envelops fueled the kidneys; smother itches and penetrated scratchy gasps in the writhed wheezes, slightly, almost silently, the heart stiffened #emotionalfeedbackontimelesswavelengths yet slower; for sustaining unto the end of the day…some collision in other words with the song playing,,,,Well no? Alright then, so I just pinched my dick like some little kid squirming when the involuntary lunges cranked; abdomen shoved the bladder, muscled in every grip of the parted vein of conductors #bearingagiftbeyondprice #almostfree #yeah? this inflammation of crumbs of scratched steel wool curled, pressed, irritated, nibbled, chilled, harsh sparkles centuries ancient black atop strips of lathe, the plaster splooge dark side of the ceiling, joists real begrimed.. an unattainable quality of cells burned off, much more history, spectacular weaponry, catapulted capitulating Byzantines. Decoded Sicily. Syracuse. Archemides. Wherever two or more are gathered and destined to repeat mythologies. Harness the reconstruction written in the sense of experimentation with publication here making up of history….In one record. Since in another produced floods like sacrificing Atlantis….My hot heartbeats amass slow destructions of my own dark knowledge or lack thereof…. Ahhhh you infallible body that can’t forget each dump, the apocryphal phthisis…..Ohhhh, however did I make it this far? Through shredded up softly ancient book smell of attic insulation? ….Jesus… …And quietly weird for the sake of weird captures in this miniscule time period,…Uh huh. Yeah something the Romans themselves were never in possession of. The apocalypse!? No. The Plague!!?! Not hardly. …Within jagged shards, contorted schemes of brown languid gray, and tricky little buggers and their effective screams greater than the views of little girls split in hemispheres. Perfectly warm inhalation continuously filtering sunlit particles from the tiny window, dust in sunlight, like hovering elements in the atmosphere destined to swirl around the leg-work with lags of cheek flushed ill-feeling swamped in fatigue and the tingles (always tingles) them damn tingles abosorb #allthismachinery trembling equilibrium as I try to work through before and after effects of the stones, before anything spread, yes it before it spreads I’m thinking around my vacancy, assumptions of being full of polops in the inexplicable windings, collapsed anus, tired sphincters, overwrought fecal matters held up for days, literally. Voluntarily…to prove a point. Are you serious?! When a discomfort you can’t imagine in mine vacancies hit the black air smeared x-rays of smudged liver and organs in those damn mediums quite --oh how do I put it? #makingmodernmusic Careful. Easy. Settle. Settle. Don’t shove or push. If it hurts there is nothing to worry about. Only when hope is fulfilled; hope is lost. If it is solid. Sinks. If it is black….Choke up with urination. Just hold it. Hold the impacted piss just a little longer to reach #invinsibleairwavescracklewithlife stirred perspective fully hung in the balance. Stay human crawling through homes, into their attic dusts and walls, climb underneath and within the interiors, gutting for survival a great dizzy ringing in ears almost capturing #Rush #theSpiritofradio I cannot fill these pages fast enough to. Just gag real remote, the penetrating crevices in the particles, in the settle and stinging up your throat, shivering forearms and lower back and heart to keep the divining rod (never going to make it anyway, right), magnetic, cling slim against my body, forced into into my head where it seems I am……..Like I could tell anyone in one conversation anymore to me, anymore flushed down the toilet, than….oh perhaps should have chosen ‘Working Man’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Trident Media Group
Wherever Two or More are Gathered
IN THAT BOOK SMELL
of attic insulation
stir,
with a hardened tailbone say
and spread knees
straddled across the joists,
face boroughs into fine particles,
and through the ceiling
#andthemagicmusicmakesyourmorningmood
soundtrack airwaves
of my muffled little presses down
into the heavy blown clumps,
intake coughs with twinkles swirled
dirty harsh snowy
#glitteringprizes and #endlesscompromises


the spoke; stuffed-in cavity,
my body too just wasted
sweat cracks
hair slicked in the exposure
of myself contorted;
rub the heel of my arm real hard.
Into my skull-squeezed urination,
near impossible.
Hold
the tied junction box together,
cap the wires and arc connections
slipped underneath surfaces say
summer lumps perversely; thighs now and my side
oh the one on my side…
cranked lunges; my abdomen reverses
juices shove the clumped bladder
only muscles; and every grip
of the parted veins,
down my arms and knuckles glistened
scrawny mutt, portrayed
some unrechargeable instinct,
when I did not want to die yet.

I held the how to get energy
featured through spectacle layers
and careful enclosed breaths;
spoke about in other works
and like in fiberglass, those estranged glitters
hard-tickled skin-warm cold enveloping,
fueled the kidneys beginning to break down;
harden in the smothering itch
penetrated tight ball scratchy gasps,
the nasal throat swallowed,
centered inhalations connected
the nose throat tickled lungs writhed;
sore, wheezed slightly,
almost silently respiring phlegm,
the chest, the heart stiff
yet slower;
for sustaining unto the end of the day.
I pinched my dick.

Squeeze the shit
Literally glittered fierce inside corners
prickled eye lashes say,
the nostril edges well in the hairs,
back of neck scrapes, terribly scratched,
covered forearms, itchy, irritate,
shins, hands, fingers, inflammation,
crumbs of scratched steel wool turd
abrasively
all the way to those areas,
stuff constantly pressed,
irritated, nibbled chills, harsh, brushed,
destroyed tennis shoes;
well the sparkles decades black behind strips of lathe,
plaster splooged between dark joists
real stained, begrimed;
smeared sooty touches;
boogars up my nose blacken,
hairs filthy
twirled out on toilet paper or brown papertowel lengths
away, in that stained grease area
McDonalds. ‘or Wendy’s’.
The subcity wiresags where
Wherever I ate, tried,
clean a little breathing room,
dirtied up fast-food sinks into my mouth,
the same way at night
bathed in dark ring
old crow white cast-iron tub,
the water level, remained.
My step-father yelled at me,
“clean that fuckin rin afterward!”
I loved the way he pierced ‘fuckin’
I can say it the same..
skied on glucose or saccophin
or whatever the fuck it is.
Pissed off diabetic thrashing plates into walls
paint jars and frustration
never striking my mother
but when I’d forgettably rinse the tub;
just go wipe the thing.

I shrugged and slumped and sunk
since I just wanted to sit there
after such a day in an attic
or ripping walls from those real 2x4 studs,
the old hunks of lumber
actually measuring 2 inches by 4;
living all day in that air,
the scrunch right?
in the crotch of some home
in the attic
chewed down each bottom
of my tired lungs
full of insulations’ infectious microorganisms,
or tearing off shingles, taking down walls.
I worked.
I work.
Hard.
Which sucks because my body will not
Let me.


Piled up junk
in my jittery nerves
haphazardly
felt for nails and splinters
along material and debris.
I stepped stressfully, easily
and steadily within chewed shoes,
prickly loads of jagged piles
carried, wheeled into a dumpster
over the bed of my Dad’s old junk truck
at the back of the drive at his home;
remodeling company,
which kept me part-time busy,
take THIS into an old Ford F150
steering the wheel crooked
in unordained drives
straight just high all day and blistered,
hit, acid phased in country gazes
no one will ever see
but once pounding nails through deckboards
during a job he wanted to reuse them.

I come horrible, messed,
cluttered with things
all so piled, a narrow path slipped through,
but to kind of lead me out
to this balcony
where I blocked out pages
once in awhile; I come to say
HERE. This is me!
Then on my bed
fell with laziness
spreading on everything
the pages between the bed made
across the floor
and the same even over my dresser,
sheetless, pee stains I expanded;
oh the clothes,
sprawled atop themselves in my room.

I had half my life every other weekend
until high school
when my Dad could not handle me and my brother
anymore
(but actually wanted to have the house
to himself and mmmultiple girlfriends
without us teenagers around)
but there.
I wrote paint chips littered
beyond the balcony
and the dealership
well in the past.
I got him help, out, my Dad.

I just quit.
Afternoons without analysis,
real ties, a clock or bills,
many changes or moves,
a period far-gone, reoccurring,
come full away by lives between;
they were unalike,
always urged
slow progression,
me,
writing wherever you want me to world.

I stayed.

Begged myself
stuck with old tales
too wise and well established
to really know truths let alone
fresh material (the girl turning her hair up into her face..
oh quit thinking of me thinking of…)
, the sense of discovery and failure;
wore away;
like a handsaw through an LVL.

Make THIS what everyone expects.
My generation understands;
remember;
capture THIS thing that is mine
scattered wicked sharp pieces
–proof of life—dust in sunlight,
Flash light, lead light;
because once, one long……
in the foreshadows upon Time,
I rippled wild in penetration
and tangent eagerly like a sidestreet
turned inside the person I am today;
and the way the world refracted
or reflected very bent,
mania placed ahead
like the past odd nostalgia
ruled the future
exposed in attic dust
revealing exposed skeletal structure,
shell of the original Oak Grove
–2 homes I lived in, where I lived,
under construction
plastic hung across many arches
and door openings
of the living quarters
my Dad hammered away
in shadows a-and light
in summer’s when
#iwannaholdinthehandinsideyou
temporarily but by dreams and desperations,
some acknowledgment
— “unadjustable triangles,”
with outer braces, technically
French kissed the beginning
and curved steel

To most computer drafters, blips,
specific types by erasing lines,
evaporating clicks molding artgum
with nonuniform curvatures too,
the tales for miscues
mine childhood
claymade in the artgum
into starshaped figures
into ‘rubberband-men’
excluding. Real cough up
muster in a measurement,
comparison to the architect’s scale,
“ever present persistence that becomes a skyscraper,”
mere child’s play erecting the atmosphere;
but pitch aside calculators
when figuring scales,
the engineer reluctantly works
through a keyboard
template
in the heart of the smudgeless drafting.

Brush.
Sweep away.
Clear visualization,
the possible imaginations
craning great structures around
with fingers hooked to a pale
that way
stroked the old free-hand lettering
bestow orthographic
projected in the pencil sharp literature
of an auxiliary typed textbook,
such constructional communications
be axonometric.

Would all these ideas become without me?
this inside head all regenerated
in golden coincidences asleep
or shake headaches out,
these emotions fueled,
engrossed by some degree by some girl
I will stop thinking of someday
But today; but too young
Change the subject
awaiting dinner,
Burger King or Long John Silver’s maybe,
the fries tasted like flies smell
landed back into my youth
over and over; to forget her eyes
reflecting over some sneeze-guard
every place we ride along to
there is one I must find
and here is another silent eyeing
in the protected buffet light-warmed food,
inside a stripshop developed mall corner
of wired places amidst parking lots;
silently wherever,
the depressed background music
I finally feel along somehow
in the same steps my world here,
at 8 or 10, 12, sometime then,
tears away ‘hanIcan’tfightthisfeelinghennymore’
as my Dad started up the new Ford F150
and she half-looks i-mee leasving too
with her own family.

I began telling myself thereafter
on the rides home
that voice coming alive world,
‘yeah said not much at dinner’
on the ride home
Dad
we….
And so on like similar dust masking through
sludge of mucus accumulated
blown-in insulation
choked all the time in this world,
finish, they will never swallow…

Like real good succulent pieces of literature
novel classic anti-lock suppression
of anxiety and enthusiasm;
when, upon entering or re-entering
such eloquence;
the story changes endlessly
undiscovered due to sweet innocence
fresh eyes; this day is hers.
A place never existed
before the advent flamed squints
caste plain in the sunrise
of like a miniature half tweezed reanimation
unfurled, the tunnel distributions
of new sort of artistic skill,
the adept ability,
speed up the buttons,
draw the finest schematics on prints,
scrolls zoom in and out for years
then admiring, watch him
wrested hook of the wheel sort of bent
concaverd and overlapped;
so the hand just dangles
zestfully in that assumption of appeasing,
the mindset
that always ensues the story,
the relevance of fiction,
that fact, people will talk about what you do
-----while mine has this renaissance
Bible images even before the rocket scientist!
Visions sunk in the webcast,
scrolls of mouse, rolls etched, graphics
of walls of while my old dad aged the system,
sort of oozed and fingered the living part of me
nearly outside
dead, parts piliferously gruesome,
this may take 30- years to complete;
but in 30 years will be obsolete.

Shredded
sheered
pulverized innards
skulked here
empty,
needed expulsion;
and thus retracted tension
puppet string, yo-yo in the whole
world, the whole way one is attached
to themselves
on the inside,
so autistic tight maneuvering,
anatomy performs before the eyes
but the movie inside is missing something
I will never create.

#coldoutside_burnsagreatbigholeinmyheart

Express the world
through all one instance,
movie quotes, speakers everywhere
innate notes everyone thought
gone world, just gone on
while trying to go on live,
invent such
to survive
this mutation
or throbbing best side of myself
happy
oh Hope
oh universe of our country;
but chips all glass,
this place
ever knicked in the exact same place
memories go;
as if they should be somewhere
because they matter;
they have gathered unevenly;
unwind the low release
and spider-walk plots
ewww modern pallet like paintings
incurred in the supply and demand,
overwhelming population;
yet only made worthy
by reproducing them,
by hand of metaphysical adjunction,
soft arechitectural surreality
rolled rubberbanded accumulating
for the streets’ new artist
dashing relays
uncoiling or overloads connecting
with outstretched baton
wedged to their soul in the face
of modular mews
like a website museum;
yet sucking balloons in the back bedrooms
of that airy feeling
makes me feel this syndrome,
this disorder
is only a rubix-cube combination
from being solved.

The air mattress, furniture,
unfortunate mokney-see monkey do
hood through
like a show dog through stakes, slithered
the disrespectful eye contact anymore
never backs down,
even elders do it,
the conversations bind closed doors,
infamous journeys of entrepreneurs
and elevated dispersings,
money I cant imagine,
the midset of being rich
decisions that don’t have any concern
for the amount it costs upon them
decisions made by folks
unaffected by the ones they make
[opiod epidemic – blackmarket Mercurio made..]
unbearable panic
deep within these great
staring eyes.

My mind utters, fumbles
because it’s still here.
The glum blockage
lacks continuance.
View inside of me, goes to such distances,
wants to push, but I only have so much.

Stamina hollow screams suck over confines
upon some established fool
all huge and ready;
then I failed so many tests
with such involuntary shame
like before her, today
I built up the dream
now disappointed
balloon that cannot be tied
to a feeling
Tom Cruise ended Interview with a Vampire.
Rolling Stones back to the old life,
the old routines
vagrant dwelling upon cold rainy planet
places I kept thinning
rolls over into a few mortal decades,
something other than one of the ones
that always leaves behind intentions,
every finish beginning my studio parturitions
as the radio goes off air
or dead air drown, this hangover,
death’s long…..wait.

A night before this desire
got up to change the world,
cramp down,
so low slow pancreas just gould ewww
keep pace with infinitesimal altering history
and dust –smack! Breaths in this place;
yet stuck in the process, creation,
meaning of poetry indescribably,
harmlessly catches
in these sunlit flickers,
cilia in the corner of my eyes,
but grazes of rabies in little airbubbles
release from villi disintegrated
into space.

Via my eyes! Into the air, just
…I can hardly….oh believe
I would ever have heard Oasis
or the initial album of Tool
or MAzzy up without a haggard lifestyle
of such a torturing,
skin vacuumed against my insides,
concrete gets solidified
failing to flow,
my legs become dry
the way dandruff flake;
like in the 13, or 14, 15 year olds
who went to see the doctor
about some acne
and straight shocked,
snapped at me that
there was absolutely nothing he could do.

With this near allergic
but more intolerable
all itched real unnatural
coarse synthetic, fiberglass distractions,
will there ever be a Time
when particles won’t bite?
alligator mouth rows of teeth
in the canals
tickles tear out, curl, supple sucks
of inner cheeks biting chews
pressurized
together by tongueing
the whole mouth gritty
with little snorts vacantly swallowed,
process my own self
gummed up closer and closer
to eating myself to pieces inside;
knowing all ambitions
my matchbox reverses
and over and over,
across the floors
restart the precise appeal
down the carpet roadways
for moments edged just right;
to write in the exact moments
bells ring… displeased,
but I went through life
in US Olympic dreams upset;
but when you would think of me
in the best country in the world,
in the most powerful,
in would-be favored,
in the way cheese stomachs
grosse literally
bites down
bugs
liver and sardines
poops
that makes a smell curious,
crowded adulate,
that death everyone…..
Think…

#lookuptoseetheweaknessinthesky
On both sides
and with barely squeezed go
so incandescent
between THIS
comes out like the sun squints
a cinnamon scent of some grand lost memory
recovered in the eternity,
graced,
when the world leaves the planet,
occurs,
holds,
hyperventilating,
the first smooth thighs of a girl fed by the 90s;
which changed
nothing
except introduced metro-movement
like blackholes in the incredible whirlpooling
everyone inside sneaky attics;
mm goes
gets outta here.

With feces desiring those thighs
crammed solid hypnotic strobes of light
unbutton down in the wrong dimension,
the wrong part of the light.

I entered when I was supposed to
look beyond.

The simple skies overcome
detrimental pinch of radii
enclosed asshole, fueled,
my soul twisted,
turned twilight,
backed such stimulations
that radiated sinks
into the way I can anchor up
and sweep away gusts of oversprays
without hesitation;
then send you into this place
where my heart endlessly compressed
sweet beams perpetually dispensed
for the way girls eyes alone
bottom out and get enough, yearns
to catch at these fast-food places,
scarlet patches, named this book such
after a young oh ugliness
before you world…..turned over grunts
like there was more ineffable windows
down along the road, and such
it’s a comin
brushed charismatic
suddenness.

Glances the sky just
twinged
down………….
from the rooftops,
formulaic interacting lost lucrative luster,
a girl wants what a wasted quiet changes,
no. focus

---- the contrast language
stumbled out my head
in the easier communication
from my tired irreplaceable
broken resurfacing
for Olympic gold;
aha! pen scrapes,
rubs against page, every detail,
wears you out in charges
reacting to them. Awaiting
---the poet Laurette podium
-- return and take,
life away
in one powerful awful
and extremely exhausting
leave in the upstairs garrets
in the attics, vanish
me sparkled
glided
inklings
and gradually drained desire
for some softness of snow,
it seemed picturesque.


veins of frequency
modulation, the airwaves
‘butI’mnotleavinlessyoucomewithme’
reiterate,
‘rideitonbabay’
this sort of point of view
thing
graced upon me
but by mere scents
I cannot explain
and no objects can show my tingles
over the scarless faded eternity,
the lesions,
the centers of wherewithal
so utterly possessed or obsessed
with getting THIS right;
satiate the reason here
for my static electrocuting
joints
breathing bended lightning bolts
connected to the zig-zag dotting
jagged certain stars
neverending and whitelighted,
spiderweb cranium tearing out
adulations I cant otherwise
visibly, end.

To thunderstorms
head slipping raindrops
landed tingles upon the cowlick
lament the speed of sound
cable, wire in one
just cracked to the roots of absolution
so I need to train myself too
for the written word equivalent
as if I don’t contain infinities,
crack fake palm spreading eggs
in my stream of conscious
that
‘Ikeepwaiting-hewtilthatday-butitainteasy-youknowitainteasy’
and the unattainable past
meets up with me when I write;
as if the only old thing left is writing,
as if the only old understanding of mortality
can be achieved and sensed
or understood in remains of creativity
of the language shredded up softly ancient
and quietly weird for the sake of weird
to maybe get lucky
and fortunate
because who really knows the past
and the right words to capture
the true lump of crap
hairstanding
every day
life
in whatver miniscule time period,
the Romans themselves
were terrified of apocalypse;
but that never come
with something that just plain old sucks
and makes absolutely no sense
with jagged shards
contorted in color schemes
of brown languid gray
contracted deep
like metals or modern day ice sculptures
buzzed, sawed
then photographed
then melted away

Beware the simple kind words,
tricky little buggers, bastards,
their effects screams greater
than milltary strategy
that draw the past shaped likes maps
and focused widescale views
of planet earth
in the hemispheres
perfectly divided
before our sinuses breathed forevers
and more; softly gazed dreamings
big flaking lively hovered
in puny insignificant multitiude,
with a prowess to muzzle
reproaching answers
arguing rhetoric
provided insight simply
endeavors ponder, fascinate
the primitive heart withtin
places awful confusion
can and will back into evolution
innate
intellectual;
grasp the liquidity of elements
in the atmosphere,
gradually circulates
in warm inhalation
continuously filtering oxygen
and sunlit particles
like humidity of elements
in the atmosphere,
gradually circulates
in part warm inhalation
continuously filtering
heavily softness
disposition
a wet t-shirt feels the mirage
of vapors
condense into planet earth
world,
melting spots
indetectably against the skin
of where no description
or scientific method
necessarily makes the gelatin spring
much clearer
to the miraculous respiration
sloshing exhales of those elements
nearly insurmountable
on about how grandly moist
the restless realm
restored phonemics
attempting to match the experience
the moors past
that went out when the light obliterated
blinks like a bubble
contained, no substance or soul
meant
nothing
to the landscape
terrain
poof
pin prick and poof
restored then again
every now and then
I go go go push myself
eating with my waist line shriveled
I go in a hurry
amazingly with cramps
slowing down continuous work
only hunger grumbles and shakes
and stuff but overeating
self-assured flows
begun before the pain
had released my body upon one recent great
heave
into the toilet
so I go fast
walk real fast
devour the diarrhea
biting and swelling
dog shit in-between
brand new sneaker soles
splattered
the great wasting further
than I had already been.

Destined flushed ill-feeling
swamped
fatigue and tingles
always tingles
and terrible equilibrium
black and white squares
in the eye corners
that vanish when I try to see them
like the particles preset
settle Time falling into place
everything for the balance
of the universe to remain
long enough before and after me
‘rememberallthosenigthsIcried’
before and after the stones
hauled around vacancy
polops in the inexplicable windings
collapsed hoses
anus
in the whole way through,
tired sphinctors
overwrought, slouched in fecal matters
held up for days literally
voluntary
purposely
perhaps proves a point
though I can’t imagine
the discomfort mine vacancies
black air smeared x-rays,
smudged liver organs
in those damn mediums
never full or empty
the lower portion swirls of purls
but be careful
you don’t
shove or push
--see if it will solidify
choke up urination
just hold it
hold
impacted piss
just a little longer
to reach more of the day
it will curl back inward
roll itself up stirred
liquid lethargy
of twirling perspective
down over and over fully collapsing
hung in the balance
slouched or slumped
the unnatural human.

Send me you flowers in December
No disrespect but you lifted my bones
crawling through homes
into their attic dusts
and wall interiors
gutting properties for the dimes
of present survival
so where the neck attaches
to shoulders
whiplash returns
on chilled cloudy days
almost enters the weighty gray
sky-compacted encompasses
atop my head thump
biting into the point of pinch
in every readjustment
around the shoulders and neck
and head
hunch
backing my boney presence
curls up that point
slumped sneaks flashes pains
around the inside edge of my scapula
and like them old action figures
wrestlers
feel though torpedo shaped
transformed
with my head struck, in the crotches of attics
abrasive embroidery crosstitched
like a shirt tag grown within skin
there
threading to the bone
this melting across my whole backside
head and neck
so I cannot stand straight
let alone ingore the hold
the rockhard hold
shit of that which should go down
looks good smells good tastes good seems good
to my withered body
emaciated shell
here to be
all that goodness
wherever it is desired
and assumes cramp or crave,
natural shakes and deteriorations,
something artificially coated
and blocking
the offering that just seems
like I should be able to insert
break down
without a second thought
eat and run
into translucent triangles
and parallel bars
tough spins: give them what I got
and they will never sin again
-- the world once grew up
so fastly in eagerness
of independence
so much
that kids
just a few years
just reached their twenties,
purchased perfect new models
of vehicles
and bought homes
things only a generation beforehand
needed
half their life to acquire
while just before that
they barely had lights to illuminate
while a great dizzy ringing in my ears
almost airhorns
but never grabs my dull attention
span
I begin to near curl over and cannot fill fast enough
so I just gag
real hard
about the hunger
penetrating the crevices
the particles settle
they are stinging
up my throat now
and shivering my forearms
lower back and adrenal glands
heart
grow too fast
or within my own existence
that does not belong here
yet the divining rod
magnetic cling
dive into the seas of communication
that everyone has become obsessed with
conversation
holds more value
than anything else
for the human spirit
the ability to prove my mind
and I am stuck
barely able to eat
forced myself
just because my gut says
I am hungry
like conversation
to me anymore
worthless
blather that would be easier
to grow
from were it flushed down the toilet
the wizkids are crosshaired
in the CAD
working the mechanics
of tomorrow’s etched whiteprint
walltypes to save themselves
and immovable dying
coagulated muscles
those fierce cramps
you see athletes sting to the air
support their calf
far away from the agony
and wrenched colorful bizarre possibility
of amputations
in a slick shocking moment
hydrated
in these conditions fermenting
what might considerably flash
and rise up
in how I go about perpetually
in the intrepid position upon earth
with a wasting dorsal
with urges unable to stay on my toes
ahead of
everything.

I have been around
and all that I know is that
THIS
has been all that I have
been around;
my entire life
pinched thyroid
because of the juices
pinching themselves
to expel from the claustrophobic girth
growing me unfulfilled
my adulthood never fattened from the fuel
but not too fill out just that the day
requires too much energy
my face instead dissolves
at their ends
as chills instead
of power
just as when I seem to bend too far
and a rib gouges backwards
in myside maunevering
out of the crotch there
but still holding the pee
too long
backed up
the waste eating across
my lower belly
waistline
which never released
enough or everything
almost immediately
forced to the tip of a kind of
funnel of my canals
everything sucks
dries the soil
riverfront trees
fires flames formations
with the omniscience to predict
the repetition of a radio song
or music video
to follow with foresight
or déjà vu
in the milliseconds
of one song dissolved
faded in another’s
worn out
ductwork that at times
replaces a different melody
but usually the same atmosphere
pulling the stomach just like
I been doing for a purpose
for hours the soreness remains
onward even though I just woke up
the tired holding
the wedged relax
loosen the trapped creases of gas
in as the world stares
prepares the persons inside adjacent
the mirrored apartments
unpinchable pressure
from within
to thwart attempts
fill the car with oil
so I have to suspend pouring
and hold instead the running elements
thorough structures
some kind of performance
shrinks me
so I have no room for
her
overwhelming shots of squirts
and anger
really anger
again

press play


AND IN THAT BOOK SMELL
of attic insulation,
stirs a hardened tailbone, say,
spread on your knees
straddled across ceiling joists,
face boroughs into fine particles,
and through the ceiling
#andthemagicmusicmakesyourmorningmood
soundtrack airwaves
muffled in little presses down
into the heavy blown lingers,
cough with twinkles
swirled harsh snow
#glitteringprizes and #endlesscompromises …yeah -the everlasting shadows from the frayed wedges of my fragile consciousness and framework; in a cavity, my body sweat in cracks, hair slicked self contorted; rub the heel of my palm real hard into my skull, here..hoh boy here it goes….squeeze impossible holds of the tired junction box, uncap the wires and slip surfaces tickling as this telephone wire sparks. Shit. There is too much story to….. Follow down my arms and knuckles glistened glitters, glistening fierce inside corners prickled, eye lashes dripped, the nostril edges welled in the smeared sooty touches; boogars blackened, hairs too and gobs of filthy breaths twirled out on toilet paper or brown papertowel lengths in McDonalds, ‘or Wendy’s’ (wherever I ate lunch, and tried to clean a little breathing room) How will I make it to lunch today? Then it blooms #brightantenneabristlewiththeenergy….Some rechargeable instinct that I did not want to die today. So spectacular; through layers of careful enclosed breaths..fiberglass estranged glitters and hard skin-warm cold envelops fueled the kidneys; smother itches and penetrated scratchy gasps in the writhed wheezes, slightly, almost silently, the heart stiffened #emotionalfeedbackontimelesswavelengths yet slower; for sustaining unto the end of the day…some collision in other words with the song playing,,,,Well no? Alright then, so I just pinched my dick like some little kid squirming when the involuntary lunges cranked; abdomen shoved the bladder, muscled in every grip of the parted vein of conductors #bearingagiftbeyondprice #almostfree #yeah? this inflammation of crumbs of scratched steel wool curled, pressed, irritated, nibbled, chilled, harsh sparkles centuries ancient black atop strips of lathe, the plaster splooge dark side of the ceiling, joists real begrimed.. an unattainable quality of cells burned off, much more history, spectacular weaponry, catapulted capitulating Byzantines. Decoded Sicily. Syracuse. Archemides. Wherever two or more are gathered and destined to repeat mythologies. Harness the reconstruction written in the sense of experimentation with publication here making up of history….In one record. Since in another produced floods like sacrificing Atlantis….My hot heartbeats amass slow destructions of my own dark knowledge or lack thereof…. Ahhhh you infallible body that can’t forget each dump, the apocryphal phthisis…..Ohhhh, however did I make it this far? Through shredded up softly ancient book smell of attic insulation? ….Jesus… …And quietly weird for the sake of weird captures in this miniscule time period,…Uh huh. Yeah something the Romans themselves were never in possession of. The apocalypse!? No. The Plague!!?! Not hardly. …Within jagged shards, contorted schemes of brown languid gray, and tricky little buggers and their effective screams greater than the views of little girls split in hemispheres. Perfectly warm inhalation continuously filtering sunlit particles from the tiny window, dust in sunlight, like hovering elements in the atmosphere destined to swirl around the leg-work with lags of cheek flushed ill-feeling swamped in fatigue and the tingles (always tingles) them damn tingles abosorb #allthismachinery trembling equilibrium as I try to work through before and after effects of the stones, before anything spread, yes it before it spreads I’m thinking around my vacancy, assumptions of being full of polops in the inexplicable windings, collapsed anus, tired sphincters, overwrought fecal matters held up for days, literally. Voluntarily…to prove a point. Are you serious?! When a discomfort you can’t imagine in mine vacancies hit the black air smeared x-rays of smudged liver and organs in those damn mediums quite --oh how do I put it? #makingmodernmusic Careful. Easy. Settle. Settle. Don’t shove or push. If it hurts there is nothing to worry about. Only when hope is fulfilled; hope is lost. If it is solid. Sinks. If it is black….Choke up with urination. Just hold it. Hold the impacted piss just a little longer to reach #invinsibleairwavescracklewithlife stirred perspective fully hung in the balance. Stay human crawling through homes, into their attic dusts and walls, climb underneath and within the interiors, gutting for survival a great dizzy ringing in ears almost capturing #Rush #theSpiritofradio I cannot fill these pages fast enough to. Just gag real remote, the penetrating crevices in the particles, in the settle and stinging up your throat, shivering forearms and lower back and heart to keep the divining rod (never going to make it anyway, right), magnetic, cling slim against my body, forced into into my head where it seems I am……..Like I could tell anyone in one conversation anymore to me, anymore flushed down the toilet, than….oh perhaps should have chosen ‘Working Man’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 
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Fall into the world of music, voice and song.
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction

Falling into Music - like Falling in Love

Tails it is . . . . Inherently shaken up by the attention I had been giving her or from slam dancing forever mosh-pit staining the slick bar linoleum; yet indifferent; the primitive amateurs doped on paradisial anguish with her; instilling more voice and more tragic pain of the quiet desperate vocals for nostalgia of the once crackling wastelands fumbling, ‘down-Ohdoowwwhown’ falling into place Mad Season’s River of Deceit moved stronger then, exact, duplicate, by the voice of a girl; justified for the unknowns, trippy, backs tweaked and shit, squirmy in slo-motion like splashy clasp splattered over her entire bust --- but when the shuddering charges framed my canyons at that ceaseless loss, the crumbled fragments of toppling over, the shoulders, curves of spaghetti strips highlighted, shreddings un-layering, un-plugged, song connections once…..it was not her on stage; now, candle acoustic intro, barely listen to the captured frozen Power just all too surreal once her words ended like the very blood beating thick liquid to the same face throbs, then thick liquid roll of song-loss, placid, horror of second-loss, silent instincts beating my heart, including the drummer who smoothed his hair behind his ears, pushed forward here, assuaged simply in loneliness and sanctuary of amber quilts suspended a moment and trapped forever in electric resound, the lead guitarist, he fiddled. I can hear fades away with the aching voice, away, in youths and the suffered overflow of heroes surrendering to become professed by the silence there; that rumbling meaningless message all mixed, song softened, sounds taking around the head all day lounged in the lofty burst, caught up in the middle of crowded circles of bodies, the thousandths of substratum ichors of the entire crazy crawls up off the pavement to that very disappearance…

As that the girl poofed away singing that’s ‘sooo california’ for um the small crowd around the band at the same floor level, so they never heard; when in leopard print tights and pink slip-ons, halter top, she just stuck out like a boner dressed that way, huh freaky that was --what it was as handsome formations accentuating away in the exceeding wonderment and clever cruelty of rituals, heads banging rhythms to separate such a clan before her, she started embracing everything as she yearned as if sacrificed within the unsettling herd all her admiring thoughts to the heavy walls, to every intention promoted there to erasing the homemade plastic, and strangely like scratched discs unrecognizably show in necessary raked memory skipping the outlasting, the extraordinary filmy disaster that may never be heard again. Sucked or extracted like depression on my entire body, sensing quotes to the similarity to this thinness of the singer’s structure extending eccentric, the electric lead guitar resound incomprehensibly, performing—a kind of rugby green collared shirt on, tattoos down arms, Sivertabs hanging conducive—then electrified to the sound waves too; amplified like lightning bolts off knuckles of the playing fingertips along, with mouths immediately accentuated again to stiff upper and lower lip gnarled in invincible conversions—only a fu-man-chu juiced the remaining girls—the band epitomized the floor, leveled stage that was just a corner of equipment— and the bass player had Dickey’s, tied in a sleeveless sweater; in decorated polyester plaid he had pants with a sports jacket, the drummer, with the cuffs of his button-down undone and flailing around beats and pummels, thwaps, ascend their pwatt pwatt patt putt putt pwatt as they resumed into the trendy ‘That’s So. California’ with bass major chord dissenting to relax the brow-furrowed eager forcing, the dire interest to touch the sounds like flicking eyebrow ring, orbit to yearn sheer emo gleams, drumming aphorism of compelling clings, twangs repeated as whimsical chords relentlessly hone these core fiddles exhausting frisson riffs, the “dollop of agony” (thank-you Spin) she knew was coming back, the way they always had.

But she had left, absorbed in the occasional wall-to-wall unscattering back there; through overcrowdings, to the backyard fleeing and shit down sidestreets, alley, walking all the way back home, maybe dwindled then interrupting the fast couple pumps apart from others. I tilted to her, followed. But she was something – something else.

“Some maneuverings, huh?” She had broke loose from the spaghetti shoulders over her too, one looping closer to her elbow and approaching cluster around that girl, to see that she might recognize me as never before, acknowledge the hassle perturbing, the unhealthy sides can-opener grinding, that turning knife that wheeled as if kept set aside for personal thoughts, developed awhile inside retractable earth, but intended to go folding in on her selflessness, as all of them might have within the tesseract and terraced; in tatters, when these clenched grips that can’t hardly process desolate cafeteria afternoons of mine own schooling; which should be without concern, the learning and growing, the developing and the social figurative mind for the future; when the young and the healthy girl who would like everyone there if she had the chance to meet them, gets ahead of me in a matter of 4 years a-hold of the shoulder straps, gains on intellect quite readily; comparably, a normal on-campus-across-the-globe sense that captured in the flattering earthful layers of promiscuity now begging from gurgles curling bubbling blood-filled belches ever exhaled, let alone traveled from the esophagus, rolls and rolls of how one gets hungry for a girl too, “Oh, Did you see her? That was nice Bow. That was real nice!”—“who? No. What Girl?” –“The singer Bow! The whole time you were staring at her!.”

But you can’t, you can’t hear her, and no one will ever hear again the infamously interlacing, the interacting, lack of elbow room that filtered the room, warped up to the chamber of orchestras, via a tiny band, touring maybe, a local group intermixing like Lemonheads with Pennywise, succinct dreamers scaling away, punkish notes accompanying text, so it sounded thick full spits of shouts, screams, maybe, maybe, peeling away apple whisks with strokes skinning, flaying souls, reeling until their own hands bleed…oh how so much happens in the ecstasy of animals chewed from slumber and consumed into the intelligent light tremendous, and certainly flung, literally strung out for only outlets to the light and glory of their own obsolete souls they are now over-aware of from exceeding grinds the mind tried to transform into something magnificent, in magazines, the pollution, the words, the sounds, for a story that doesn’t sound written but told; for expressing the voice you have thought; there is still a greater difference of being in certain worlds with nothing, and being fluently influencing talent; yet no one had any clue THIS fringed on the chasing exteriors in bizarre ways. She looks at me from the kinked concrete valleys puzzled, the uneven backwards garage fencings, unearthed treasures, approximately above the night and stares much into Bowen (who didn’t blink), me, into the guy; thinking infinitely and absenting Elsie …. to just go down the polyphonic roads of a romanfleuve a minute; almost too impermissible to truly narrate anymore upon another than the startled way she provoked in this lousy goon to be like the one operating lead guitar off the minor stage set-up of equipment like I told there at floor level. Fangs bit in, poison, low blood sugar feelings, “why you gotta look at her?” vices on the right, tracked the desire to express the story in a time period prepared with the unique ability to change the conceptual ways ones think in an instant, that Elsie said, “I wish I could make a song. Really...I mean, that is the most immediate way to reach people nowadays. Why waste time writing a big long novel no one will ever read entirely. I should just write a radio song, a one hit wonder to make people realize what is going on with me. Something to stimulate the creative process, to enhance the art—uh like…Tennyson, I think, who recited poetry aloud into it -to hypnotize himself to some extent—“ she suggested. I study every aspect with a preoccupation to vanish art in this case, and describe Elsie by selecting and typing no more than every vicariously failed signs of reference before it has begun, when your author awoke to the popular way it is to express oneself.

The intermittent breaks unafraid of the impending controversial inquisition, splattering guts across to describe disaster, that won’t flush away the clog; but shipping something I’ll never get to the people; without censorship; multiple historical changings in just a couple words or stories never read but heard.

In their own lives, in the irony that musicians or some professionals bug-eye in the machine, will deny the truth and realities, once it is published; like where all the soldiers exhume flashbacks in the glares and ammunition; since some can’t accept the way they are powerless to the stereo influence, the primeval concept still lingers inventing new-fangled industrious intentions to break through that stream of disgusting conscience, perhaps just to clear the voices and quotes of men in experimental capacity exceeding old western late 20th century imperfections and low quality craftsmanship, when literature comes to mind and such plans and stories and ideas and details fashionably written on unique magnets, chromed in see-through plastic, reproducing marionettes, hinges clearly the restoring of real prose in frescoes of generous recognition via radio waves in the valves of evolution and metaphorical greatnesses beyond even posterity; but regrets and never explain enough of which inexplicably bounds, chains, tethers; just as I am. Just me.

The belly settles almost ceased for me to leave her in the hidden backstreet. Walking in the continuum (since I did not choose to do so); following her home, oh how bad, there’s no convincing, no obvious comparison to the otherwise crucial fatality with those black and white spots nursing the inside of me like air drip gasps continuously clogged to my sinuses in the rear of my head; to keep up with her always running, always running from me in the stares of music and temperament, surrendered to the striving emotional playing in the airwaves, the modulations through summer car turned power windows immeasurably all the way down; but incalculable sensations of encounters throughout, some unrelated manner filtering, touches of inanimate objects like went uneven, as we had all ungrounded at the threshold, left the placement among connection, to experience the planet where it was hard to perceive, by these tumbles or scrapes, stumbling down along the back trails then huge collision and observation followed by scents and dust-clouding vicarious emotion and empathy responding to the minor reactions, the rapport; yet nothing impeccably blows from dash boards in that corner of my head once against the windshield, the bash, the ear tugging screeches of hollow tires in the back of mind…endlessly fidgeting places around, busts, incorporate back into sound, squeezed from the lodge of annihilation to utter distractions of the planted momentum inside calibrating rumbling masses craving relief from the sidestreets just as a sleeping limb might require adjusting from the unpleasant needle pokes; sure, devouring intuitions and intentions, the missing puzzle wedge piece in a drawer by itself and the photography plays with lights and shadows, as she step back with captures, stopped to look at me, and every flash but of Elsie; looking you incomplete, right incomplete in the eye with such a fiery jealous rage that falls in love, makes you fall into love with her every single time.

#hotwednesdays

 

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Fall into the world of music, voice and song.
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction
Falling into Music - like Falling in Love
Tails it is . . . . Inherently shaken up by the attention I had been giving her or from slam dancing forever mosh-pit staining the slick bar linoleum; yet indifferent; the primitive amateurs doped on paradisial anguish with her; instilling more voice and more tragic pain of the quiet desperate vocals for nostalgia of the once crackling wastelands fumbling, ‘down-Ohdoowwwhown’ falling into place Mad Season’s River of Deceit moved stronger then, exact, duplicate, by the voice of a girl; justified for the unknowns, trippy, backs tweaked and shit, squirmy in slo-motion like splashy clasp splattered over her entire bust --- but when the shuddering charges framed my canyons at that ceaseless loss, the crumbled fragments of toppling over, the shoulders, curves of spaghetti strips highlighted, shreddings un-layering, un-plugged, song connections once…..it was not her on stage; now, candle acoustic intro, barely listen to the captured frozen Power just all too surreal once her words ended like the very blood beating thick liquid to the same face throbs, then thick liquid roll of song-loss, placid, horror of second-loss, silent instincts beating my heart, including the drummer who smoothed his hair behind his ears, pushed forward here, assuaged simply in loneliness and sanctuary of amber quilts suspended a moment and trapped forever in electric resound, the lead guitarist, he fiddled. I can hear fades away with the aching voice, away, in youths and the suffered overflow of heroes surrendering to become professed by the silence there; that rumbling meaningless message all mixed, song softened, sounds taking around the head all day lounged in the lofty burst, caught up in the middle of crowded circles of bodies, the thousandths of substratum ichors of the entire crazy crawls up off the pavement to that very disappearance…

As that the girl poofed away singing that’s ‘sooo california’ for um the small crowd around the band at the same floor level, so they never heard; when in leopard print tights and pink slip-ons, halter top, she just stuck out like a boner dressed that way, huh freaky that was --what it was as handsome formations accentuating away in the exceeding wonderment and clever cruelty of rituals, heads banging rhythms to separate such a clan before her, she started embracing everything as she yearned as if sacrificed within the unsettling herd all her admiring thoughts to the heavy walls, to every intention promoted there to erasing the homemade plastic, and strangely like scratched discs unrecognizably show in necessary raked memory skipping the outlasting, the extraordinary filmy disaster that may never be heard again. Sucked or extracted like depression on my entire body, sensing quotes to the similarity to this thinness of the singer’s structure extending eccentric, the electric lead guitar resound incomprehensibly, performing—a kind of rugby green collared shirt on, tattoos down arms, Sivertabs hanging conducive—then electrified to the sound waves too; amplified like lightning bolts off knuckles of the playing fingertips along, with mouths immediately accentuated again to stiff upper and lower lip gnarled in invincible conversions—only a fu-man-chu juiced the remaining girls—the band epitomized the floor, leveled stage that was just a corner of equipment— and the bass player had Dickey’s, tied in a sleeveless sweater; in decorated polyester plaid he had pants with a sports jacket, the drummer, with the cuffs of his button-down undone and flailing around beats and pummels, thwaps, ascend their pwatt pwatt patt putt putt pwatt as they resumed into the trendy ‘That’s So. California’ with bass major chord dissenting to relax the brow-furrowed eager forcing, the dire interest to touch the sounds like flicking eyebrow ring, orbit to yearn sheer emo gleams, drumming aphorism of compelling clings, twangs repeated as whimsical chords relentlessly hone these core fiddles exhausting frisson riffs, the “dollop of agony” (thank-you Spin) she knew was coming back, the way they always had.
But she had left, absorbed in the occasional wall-to-wall unscattering back there; through overcrowdings, to the backyard fleeing and shit down sidestreets, alley, walking all the way back home, maybe dwindled then interrupting the fast couple pumps apart from others. I tilted to her, followed. But she was something – something else.

“Some maneuverings, huh?” She had broke loose from the spaghetti shoulders over her too, one looping closer to her elbow and approaching cluster around that girl, to see that she might recognize me as never before, acknowledge the hassle perturbing, the unhealthy sides can-opener grinding, that turning knife that wheeled as if kept set aside for personal thoughts, developed awhile inside retractable earth, but intended to go folding in on her selflessness, as all of them might have within the tesseract and terraced; in tatters, when these clenched grips that can’t hardly process desolate cafeteria afternoons of mine own schooling; which should be without concern, the learning and growing, the developing and the social figurative mind for the future; when the young and the healthy girl who would like everyone there if she had the chance to meet them, gets ahead of me in a matter of 4 years a-hold of the shoulder straps, gains on intellect quite readily; comparably, a normal on-campus-across-the-globe sense that captured in the flattering earthful layers of promiscuity now begging from gurgles curling bubbling blood-filled belches ever exhaled, let alone traveled from the esophagus, rolls and rolls of how one gets hungry for a girl too, “Oh, Did you see her? That was nice Bow. That was real nice!”—“who? No. What Girl?” –“The singer Bow! The whole time you were staring at her!.”

But you can’t, you can’t hear her, and no one will ever hear again the infamously interlacing, the interacting, lack of elbow room that filtered the room, warped up to the chamber of orchestras, via a tiny band, touring maybe, a local group intermixing like Lemonheads with Pennywise, succinct dreamers scaling away, punkish notes accompanying text, so it sounded thick full spits of shouts, screams, maybe, maybe, peeling away apple whisks with strokes skinning, flaying souls, reeling until their own hands bleed…oh how so much happens in the ecstasy of animals chewed from slumber and consumed into the intelligent light tremendous, and certainly flung, literally strung out for only outlets to the light and glory of their own obsolete souls they are now over-aware of from exceeding grinds the mind tried to transform into something magnificent, in magazines, the pollution, the words, the sounds, for a story that doesn’t sound written but told; for expressing the voice you have thought; there is still a greater difference of being in certain worlds with nothing, and being fluently influencing talent; yet no one had any clue THIS fringed on the chasing exteriors in bizarre ways. She looks at me from the kinked concrete valleys puzzled, the uneven backwards garage fencings, unearthed treasures, approximately above the night and stares much into Bowen (who didn’t blink), me, into the guy; thinking infinitely and absenting Elsie …. to just go down the polyphonic roads of a romanfleuve a minute; almost too impermissible to truly narrate anymore upon another than the startled way she provoked in this lousy goon to be like the one operating lead guitar off the minor stage set-up of equipment like I told there at floor level. Fangs bit in, poison, low blood sugar feelings, “why you gotta look at her?” vices on the right, tracked the desire to express the story in a time period prepared with the unique ability to change the conceptual ways ones think in an instant, that Elsie said, “I wish I could make a song. Really...I mean, that is the most immediate way to reach people nowadays. Why waste time writing a big long novel no one will ever read entirely. I should just write a radio song, a one hit wonder to make people realize what is going on with me. Something to stimulate the creative process, to enhance the art—uh like…Tennyson, I think, who recited poetry aloud into it -to hypnotize himself to some extent—“ she suggested. I study every aspect with a preoccupation to vanish art in this case, and describe Elsie by selecting and typing no more than every vicariously failed signs of reference before it has begun, when your author awoke to the popular way it is to express oneself.
The intermittent breaks unafraid of the impending controversial inquisition, splattering guts across to describe disaster, that won’t flush away the clog; but shipping something I’ll never get to the people; without censorship; multiple historical changings in just a couple words or stories never read but heard.
In their own lives, in the irony that musicians or some professionals bug-eye in the machine, will deny the truth and realities, once it is published; like where all the soldiers exhume flashbacks in the glares and ammunition; since some can’t accept the way they are powerless to the stereo influence, the primeval concept still lingers inventing new-fangled industrious intentions to break through that stream of disgusting conscience, perhaps just to clear the voices and quotes of men in experimental capacity exceeding old western late 20th century imperfections and low quality craftsmanship, when literature comes to mind and such plans and stories and ideas and details fashionably written on unique magnets, chromed in see-through plastic, reproducing marionettes, hinges clearly the restoring of real prose in frescoes of generous recognition via radio waves in the valves of evolution and metaphorical greatnesses beyond even posterity; but regrets and never explain enough of which inexplicably bounds, chains, tethers; just as I am. Just me.
The belly settles almost ceased for me to leave her in the hidden backstreet. Walking in the continuum (since I did not choose to do so); following her home, oh how bad, there’s no convincing, no obvious comparison to the otherwise crucial fatality with those black and white spots nursing the inside of me like air drip gasps continuously clogged to my sinuses in the rear of my head; to keep up with her always running, always running from me in the stares of music and temperament, surrendered to the striving emotional playing in the airwaves, the modulations through summer car turned power windows immeasurably all the way down; but incalculable sensations of encounters throughout, some unrelated manner filtering, touches of inanimate objects like went uneven, as we had all ungrounded at the threshold, left the placement among connection, to experience the planet where it was hard to perceive, by these tumbles or scrapes, stumbling down along the back trails then huge collision and observation followed by scents and dust-clouding vicarious emotion and empathy responding to the minor reactions, the rapport; yet nothing impeccably blows from dash boards in that corner of my head once against the windshield, the bash, the ear tugging screeches of hollow tires in the back of mind…endlessly fidgeting places around, busts, incorporate back into sound, squeezed from the lodge of annihilation to utter distractions of the planted momentum inside calibrating rumbling masses craving relief from the sidestreets just as a sleeping limb might require adjusting from the unpleasant needle pokes; sure, devouring intuitions and intentions, the missing puzzle wedge piece in a drawer by itself and the photography plays with lights and shadows, as she step back with captures, stopped to look at me, and every flash but of Elsie; looking you incomplete, right incomplete in the eye with such a fiery jealous rage that falls in love, makes you fall into love with her every single time.

#hotwednesdays
 
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"I know how you feel," he said, a deep sigh escaping his nose. The autumn wind blew through their hair, sending shivers down their exposed necks. She forgot her scarf. She knew better. "Things were better yesterday." (Read description)
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction

Madelaine.

Madelaine. a girl I had a crush on ever since I seen her white triangle up her skirt across the way in the U-shaped English classroom; but she did not really look at me ever, but let me put her to sleep over the phone once or twice since our parents knew each other; the night with tremendous immature things said to each other everywhere I will never remember except for the fact that I fell in love with her breathing, too. She was blurred in the shadows of a clear kid with no ambition revealed to myself; anyway and with so much sorrow he just smiled along at everyone so you could not see it overpowering; whatever he was, wherever he truly cared enough or not at all to suck a wicked disaster no kid in the school was ready for - this melancholy spirit sent himself to this spectacle of antifreeze and sleeping pills so the whole school mourns him in a mass at the cathedral; and Madelaine, poor Madelaine just weeps without showing anything.

Pointy elbows in the thin arms of Dwayne Centeres; a tall boy trimmed real neat with a buzz cut and pretty blue eyes way up in his small head; got me real good with her. He usually wore sweaters on the long frame, a dark complexion naturally tanned but the cheeks were too rosy, legs slacked and those boney arms in perfect long sleeves of some cotton button-down through the arm openings of them sweaters, too cute for most girls and too quiet for others; a good boy extremely smart and always dressed so nice even in among homes of brick and blacktop driveways where garden pathways in these overgrown vines get them dewy sprinkles on you when brushing past them… Onto my face and swimming arms and hands to feel through the darkness, through late summer jut before our senior years, to get around back into a sensor light suddenly flicking alight, and giggling quietly up onto the deck to get high with pretty boy Dwayne Centeres; wearing my best jeans and pair of sneakers; came with these obnoxious lumbering twins Gerald and Gerrod back to the back deck and others I could easily tell apart through the bushes and darkness as we entered the back part there; kids in my school partied inside the home with parents gone; and somehow there was Madelaine.

The twins I knew through CYO basketball games. Where she always reaches behind and takes her brunette hair around in her hand to turn the bunch of it over her face. But how she was; there; in the bleachers each time I looked over to her. Feet upon the lower seats. Hair pulled over to her face with a flip, the bend at her shoulders, fits of her small nose over the ancillary, at the fist of it, supporting her head, hair in hand. Back of her arm resting on her prominent thigh. Over and over she turns hair up to her face, and arrests that way making side contact with him; not watching the game; rather watching for his, Dwayne’s appeal in the fringes within his own mind imitating over a million things..a million reasons to glance and instantly stop in time.

We all got to recognize each other, which Gerald pointed out in front of everyone like he needed to; that clever clown of that English class that we all had together; and always he had something intelligent to remark about, some smartass comment, but this time intending to embarrass me and impress Madelaine. The weed must have sold him on “why you such a stoner dude?” And like the others who really only talked about getting stoned, he passed on it, again trying to impress her; when the little group gathered on the back deck and Gerald popped the light back on every time it shut off by waving his hand in front of it. And the only kid in that shadowland other than me who actually got singed, that knew how to hit the bowl was Dwayne Centeres, who burst at Gerald, “leave the damn thing off man. You want the neighbors to see us and get so and so in trouble?” Only he said the name of the student’s house I cannot remember now; as “your crumby bowl is clogged,” Chad Grodan claimed because the woose did not actually want to inhale hard enough and get all squeamish and scared, capricious like I love, that selfish solace cry for sympathy I now assume Dwayne was silenced by and amazed; yet actually revealed he was just conquered by love.

That is when I noticed him catching looks at Madelaine after putting down huge gulps I could hear sizzle and crack, pop the hunk of a marijuana seed right on out of the bowl. He blatantly grabs her with looks in most obvious turns of his head. Hopes. He hoped anyways in the moments when he purposely gets her looking over at his talking with the others, and just like at the games among a few others of them real pretty things on the seats between this unpredictable surrendering… to ..reaches over that, will bring her brunette hair, up, across her sweet face; to meeting eyes after watching him talk to the others between them when he is not so much looking as he is sensing her watching; the right moment to look right into her and twist the gorgeous hair fully in the way of her face.

Though I never questioned and did not intend to ignore it, Dwayne who was just trying to make her cover smiles at him, flicked into the shadows of a clear kid with no ambition – and I wondered why she liked him.

And poor Dwayne. How I freaked about in my mind how when I recognized his seat over there empty in English class afterward; after he took those lovely turns she made completely away; without him; and I tried to feel bad, stirred as they took the casket too; down along the road and away from the cathedral, but a bird then shit right on my pathetic hair, just buzzed it; and to get back to this story but was struggling but with Dwayne Centeres’ suicide and the funeral and afterward and how nearly this same group got high again with myself and the others and that awkward silent splendor, Madelaine.

On that deck like ghosts we talked about our CYO basketball league and English class and our futures and shit we never dreamed. But he never mentioned anything close to what he must have been planning. We actually connected to the point word passed around to others, who just went, “those are the sickheads,” and everyone played along like, “they suck!”—“oh yeah that’s the worst fucking group”—“yup, that’s the one’s with him on the deck”—“they should have known”—“they should have helped him,” and everything since the dust settled, by the end of the thing, summer, and Dwayne’s life.

So there, the little group somehow gathered again, but down along the road away from the cathedral, a few streets over, and out of sights of the principle or teachers or anyone else; in this mini-van, after Dwayne’s funeral, and in the sloppy confusion which had begun to settle in the way buzzes can, Gerald tells them where a whistle blew after Dwayne aggressively went after a loose ball to catch this rebound and his pointy elbow busted into his front tooth, blackened and bruised the thing that seemed to startle my own wisdom teeth with growths, woke them up say within my braces, as he exposed the thing to everyone climbing on out of the min-van; but what remained between Dwayne and myself as Chad Grodan, he went, "I know how you feel," he said, a deep sigh escaping his nose; as the autumn wind blew through their hair, sending shivers down their exposed necks. She forgot her scarf. She knew better. "Things were better yesterday." Madelaine said ---was adoring her hiding into behind that brunette hair, turning it up into her face, and without looking at them, feeling those light-colored blue disguises, forming her honey-colored face with that full-length hair around and kind of down the side of her hand, then behind sort of grasping, turning it up and in front of her face trying to be smiling with me.

 

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"I know how you feel," he said, a deep sigh escaping his nose. The autumn wind blew through their hair, sending shivers down their exposed necks. She forgot her scarf. She knew better. "Things were better yesterday." (Read description)
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction
Madelaine.
Madelaine. a girl I had a crush on ever since I seen her white triangle up her skirt across the way in the U-shaped English classroom; but she did not really look at me ever, but let me put her to sleep over the phone once or twice since our parents knew each other; the night with tremendous immature things said to each other everywhere I will never remember except for the fact that I fell in love with her breathing, too. She was blurred in the shadows of a clear kid with no ambition revealed to myself; anyway and with so much sorrow he just smiled along at everyone so you could not see it overpowering; whatever he was, wherever he truly cared enough or not at all to suck a wicked disaster no kid in the school was ready for - this melancholy spirit sent himself to this spectacle of antifreeze and sleeping pills so the whole school mourns him in a mass at the cathedral; and Madelaine, poor Madelaine just weeps without showing anything.

Pointy elbows in the thin arms of Dwayne Centeres; a tall boy trimmed real neat with a buzz cut and pretty blue eyes way up in his small head; got me real good with her. He usually wore sweaters on the long frame, a dark complexion naturally tanned but the cheeks were too rosy, legs slacked and those boney arms in perfect long sleeves of some cotton button-down through the arm openings of them sweaters, too cute for most girls and too quiet for others; a good boy extremely smart and always dressed so nice even in among homes of brick and blacktop driveways where garden pathways in these overgrown vines get them dewy sprinkles on you when brushing past them… Onto my face and swimming arms and hands to feel through the darkness, through late summer jut before our senior years, to get around back into a sensor light suddenly flicking alight, and giggling quietly up onto the deck to get high with pretty boy Dwayne Centeres; wearing my best jeans and pair of sneakers; came with these obnoxious lumbering twins Gerald and Gerrod back to the back deck and others I could easily tell apart through the bushes and darkness as we entered the back part there; kids in my school partied inside the home with parents gone; and somehow there was Madelaine.
The twins I knew through CYO basketball games. Where she always reaches behind and takes her brunette hair around in her hand to turn the bunch of it over her face. But how she was; there; in the bleachers each time I looked over to her. Feet upon the lower seats. Hair pulled over to her face with a flip, the bend at her shoulders, fits of her small nose over the ancillary, at the fist of it, supporting her head, hair in hand. Back of her arm resting on her prominent thigh. Over and over she turns hair up to her face, and arrests that way making side contact with him; not watching the game; rather watching for his, Dwayne’s appeal in the fringes within his own mind imitating over a million things..a million reasons to glance and instantly stop in time.
We all got to recognize each other, which Gerald pointed out in front of everyone like he needed to; that clever clown of that English class that we all had together; and always he had something intelligent to remark about, some smartass comment, but this time intending to embarrass me and impress Madelaine. The weed must have sold him on “why you such a stoner dude?” And like the others who really only talked about getting stoned, he passed on it, again trying to impress her; when the little group gathered on the back deck and Gerald popped the light back on every time it shut off by waving his hand in front of it. And the only kid in that shadowland other than me who actually got singed, that knew how to hit the bowl was Dwayne Centeres, who burst at Gerald, “leave the damn thing off man. You want the neighbors to see us and get so and so in trouble?” Only he said the name of the student’s house I cannot remember now; as “your crumby bowl is clogged,” Chad Grodan claimed because the woose did not actually want to inhale hard enough and get all squeamish and scared, capricious like I love, that selfish solace cry for sympathy I now assume Dwayne was silenced by and amazed; yet actually revealed he was just conquered by love.
That is when I noticed him catching looks at Madelaine after putting down huge gulps I could hear sizzle and crack, pop the hunk of a marijuana seed right on out of the bowl. He blatantly grabs her with looks in most obvious turns of his head. Hopes. He hoped anyways in the moments when he purposely gets her looking over at his talking with the others, and just like at the games among a few others of them real pretty things on the seats between this unpredictable surrendering… to ..reaches over that, will bring her brunette hair, up, across her sweet face; to meeting eyes after watching him talk to the others between them when he is not so much looking as he is sensing her watching; the right moment to look right into her and twist the gorgeous hair fully in the way of her face.
Though I never questioned and did not intend to ignore it, Dwayne who was just trying to make her cover smiles at him, flicked into the shadows of a clear kid with no ambition – and I wondered why she liked him.

And poor Dwayne. How I freaked about in my mind how when I recognized his seat over there empty in English class afterward; after he took those lovely turns she made completely away; without him; and I tried to feel bad, stirred as they took the casket too; down along the road and away from the cathedral, but a bird then shit right on my pathetic hair, just buzzed it; and to get back to this story but was struggling but with Dwayne Centeres’ suicide and the funeral and afterward and how nearly this same group got high again with myself and the others and that awkward silent splendor, Madelaine.

On that deck like ghosts we talked about our CYO basketball league and English class and our futures and shit we never dreamed. But he never mentioned anything close to what he must have been planning. We actually connected to the point word passed around to others, who just went, “those are the sickheads,” and everyone played along like, “they suck!”—“oh yeah that’s the worst fucking group”—“yup, that’s the one’s with him on the deck”—“they should have known”—“they should have helped him,” and everything since the dust settled, by the end of the thing, summer, and Dwayne’s life.

So there, the little group somehow gathered again, but down along the road away from the cathedral, a few streets over, and out of sights of the principle or teachers or anyone else; in this mini-van, after Dwayne’s funeral, and in the sloppy confusion which had begun to settle in the way buzzes can, Gerald tells them where a whistle blew after Dwayne aggressively went after a loose ball to catch this rebound and his pointy elbow busted into his front tooth, blackened and bruised the thing that seemed to startle my own wisdom teeth with growths, woke them up say within my braces, as he exposed the thing to everyone climbing on out of the min-van; but what remained between Dwayne and myself as Chad Grodan, he went, "I know how you feel," he said, a deep sigh escaping his nose; as the autumn wind blew through their hair, sending shivers down their exposed necks. She forgot her scarf. She knew better. "Things were better yesterday." Madelaine said ---was adoring her hiding into behind that brunette hair, turning it up into her face, and without looking at them, feeling those light-colored blue disguises, forming her honey-colored face with that full-length hair around and kind of down the side of her hand, then behind sort of grasping, turning it up and in front of her face trying to be smiling with me.
 
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Written by Lynk

Heads Up

As I brought up in my previous post, I am reinstating my #hotwednesdays

---maybe next week folks!! =] God Bless and as always Thanks for Ragin w/me

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Written by Lynk
Heads Up
As I brought up in my previous post, I am reinstating my #hotwednesdays
---maybe next week folks!! =] God Bless and as always Thanks for Ragin w/me
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We lost a lot with the passing of Chris Cornell. To many, he was a mentor, a brilliant writer; an inimitable voice. Until June 30th, this challenge is for the friends and fans to write their stories, poems, tributes: anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered, as well as making copies available for purchase, donating all proceeds to suicide prevention. In partnership with Seattle Refined, the most shared post will be read on air, and posted on seattlerefined.com.
Written by Lynk in portal Seattle Refined

This ones for Chris

Flip. Spot a fly.

hmm crank open that twilit energy.

aw #not_now man.

we get it in on the way across?

yes yes yes. try it

go

shuffle carousels, crack wicked cures cuz the heart ache blurs >visions for all the time like where are you Houston? is somebody out there. will somebody listen? yeah.

never cry, wolf.

ok then.......times wasting. flipping around the mountain juiced and shatterings, a million points directed into singular vanishing. of the vocality reflected within altered special effects and a precision to preform just for you oh buddio 

Permission

that

 muddy waters removal and replacing it with just a little love. enough. and go get them  glowing mirages coming. hoo that beast. it's happening and the body of listening ahhhhh IS screaming the flash over gnarly grain elevators whispering and exhaling way back oh so fast in such chords folks dream dream dreaming with the greatest diving throughout the damned divide above a driving #soundgarden_syncing chase into the choppy and taaaake.(ing) turning off my one last breath. and don't forget. writing. I lost it. no. I ain't

....listen in a sec. 

I'm texting you 

unravels the undone in such drums and son... u r still with me. right? 

speaking that this cool flying apart of oh so much reading, but dude squeezes all in this rush a raging too perfectly clung to Ya. to know what I mean. and cling within shining amongst the searing rhythm simultaneous to haung upon when she comes! those elements of the mechanically insane pleased as to where I been coming ..

somataform disorders disorganize ideas about imagining

I'm already ...oh nevermind....... so what about a few chips in us frivolous feignings could power over CNS and there u hav ur puppet.

ha ha ha. ha pay attention here. that it's too far away

(for me to hold)

only adds anxiety to

oh thoughts that feint away fabricating factitious paralysis. distract. preoccupy with that and extractions of the point they waited for. but only the audience can? hear this one. there under the bridge boom....upload and good good program terminated in ports, patching, tingling thanks for echoing

my dude.    . anytime E. Ok Iheard the screaming falling trees

_andLynk/volume182//mixCD/_enter:southst/southI75/exit-Miami_switchinputs/FM_modulatemywave/sendu_pld-thisonesforChris

Im going to be flipping a coin to post

#hot_wednesday

#headsortailswednesday

just messed up? right? ain't.....it. wait wait. Is this a challenge?  it gets better than stars all im saying. heir yours -wednesday 

follow My Lead and The tell all thousand stories at my picture 

_

_

_

_

ps. ahhhhh I hate being so brilliantly weird. but why are we not making robots out of humans? human details I shall not mention but forget the mechanical elements of the structure (and the clinically insane cuz please not my carcass, and no way. what kind of a person do you think I am?); dead ones?

 but ideas

 imagine a few chips could power over CNS and there u hav ur puppet. oh thoughts that drift away to a story untold. are not meant to b kites. drunken blogs let's not quilt these days eh? and quit collaging dummy. word play the audience into the object oh my  obsessions oh and also remember this:

pps...now it has hasn't it? u know who u are my dude. well played sir. ur the fucking greatest- indeedness.. . ok thank youzz 

  

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We lost a lot with the passing of Chris Cornell. To many, he was a mentor, a brilliant writer; an inimitable voice. Until June 30th, this challenge is for the friends and fans to write their stories, poems, tributes: anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered, as well as making copies available for purchase, donating all proceeds to suicide prevention. In partnership with Seattle Refined, the most shared post will be read on air, and posted on seattlerefined.com.
Written by Lynk in portal Seattle Refined
This ones for Chris
Flip. Spot a fly.


hmm crank open that twilit energy.


aw #not_now man.


we get it in on the way across?


yes yes yes. try it


go


shuffle carousels, crack wicked cures cuz the heart ache blurs >visions for all the time like where are you Houston? is somebody out there. will somebody listen? yeah.


never cry, wolf.


ok then.......times wasting. flipping around the mountain juiced and shatterings, a million points directed into singular vanishing. of the vocality reflected within altered special effects and a precision to preform just for you oh buddio 
Permission
that
 muddy waters removal and replacing it with just a little love. enough. and go get them  glowing mirages coming. hoo that beast. it's happening and the body of listening ahhhhh IS screaming the flash over gnarly grain elevators whispering and exhaling way back oh so fast in such chords folks dream dream dreaming with the greatest diving throughout the damned divide above a driving #soundgarden_syncing chase into the choppy and taaaake.(ing) turning off my one last breath. and don't forget. writing. I lost it. no. I ain't

....listen in a sec. 


I'm texting you 
unravels the undone in such drums and son... u r still with me. right? 

speaking that this cool flying apart of oh so much reading, but dude squeezes all in this rush a raging too perfectly clung to Ya. to know what I mean. and cling within shining amongst the searing rhythm simultaneous to haung upon when she comes! those elements of the mechanically insane pleased as to where I been coming ..


somataform disorders disorganize ideas about imagining


I'm already ...oh nevermind....... so what about a few chips in us frivolous feignings could power over CNS and there u hav ur puppet.


ha ha ha. ha pay attention here. that it's too far away


(for me to hold)


only adds anxiety to


oh thoughts that feint away fabricating factitious paralysis. distract. preoccupy with that and extractions of the point they waited for. but only the audience can? hear this one. there under the bridge boom....upload and good good program terminated in ports, patching, tingling thanks for echoing


my dude.    . anytime E. Ok Iheard the screaming falling trees


_andLynk/volume182//mixCD/_enter:southst/southI75/exit-Miami_switchinputs/FM_modulatemywave/sendu_pld-thisonesforChris







Im going to be flipping a coin to post

#hot_wednesday
#headsortailswednesday


just messed up? right? ain't.....it. wait wait. Is this a challenge?  it gets better than stars all im saying. heir yours -wednesday 


follow My Lead and The tell all thousand stories at my picture 
_
_
_
_



ps. ahhhhh I hate being so brilliantly weird. but why are we not making robots out of humans? human details I shall not mention but forget the mechanical elements of the structure (and the clinically insane cuz please not my carcass, and no way. what kind of a person do you think I am?); dead ones?
 but ideas

 imagine a few chips could power over CNS and there u hav ur puppet. oh thoughts that drift away to a story untold. are not meant to b kites. drunken blogs let's not quilt these days eh? and quit collaging dummy. word play the audience into the object oh my  obsessions oh and also remember this:


pps...now it has hasn't it? u know who u are my dude. well played sir. ur the fucking greatest- indeedness.. . ok thank youzz 


  
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To celebrate the release of my new book, I am inviting you all to participate in a contest. The concept: Explore a person's struggle to come to terms with a strange, sinister, or surreal reality. This is a broad theme to encourage you to be as creative as you choose. Flash and full length stories welcome in horror, fantasy, surreal, or any hybrid genres. The only rule: Prose fiction only. Three winners will be chosen, who will receive 2000, 1000, or 500 coins + a signed copy of my collection.
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction

Price On Life

Aligned, synchronized, autonomy in subdivision suburban somewhere, placement inside this subcity, with an impact. “Makes you dream art and museummm cultural whatnots…. but in every attempt, we will always not have enough; to live inside of… Every powerful movement of the provincial day before us; somewhere in the mindset yet,” Holt’s bubbled skin surfaces, “won’t ever be enough; but there’s no heading back to what once was. And We’re going to make it and everything anyway we can anyway. We are going to put forth thee effort. So…c’mon, it’s awesome when you take off.”

We were solace with Kalifornia credits, with the all old knowledge in the way; and so pondered for more legends than myths we are already being compared to - something like this? --------- his fresh shaved head turned from Brilliant Fiction to me refracted, too pinching, wasted and slipped a little in these shakes right there, tremors or fidgets, low blood sugar nerves of some unnatural surrealism and anyway all masqueraded in a kind of sideswipe manner relapsed from some presence of the book Holt held up, out, the way one hand displays story-time to kindergarteners but leaving the cover towards us; mine wavering soul going simultaneously imploring the inverted opening

--the phenomenal Holt sprung off this mashed couch to sit upright, swiped a cigarette flip-box confound by theory and thin air, and rolled over for an answer, from him; and yet from myself, “sooo..wwwhatever yu-ha whatter weee gonna do then about this Sahn Diego mmopportunity?” released a stringing along of words kind of coyly; yet, he went akimbo in front of the stereo -cabinet –pupop! glass door drifting… and reached in/slid heavy flapping CD case to leaf, to persuade in the collided quiet galaxies mesmerizing reflectively. Seinfeld blipped right silent [on mute] in that same instance and pretended nothing and my admiration was something really celestial as I slouched, indolent, curious as though something sacred was upon us, after he went, “weeee need some music to break the hmmmediate silences and despair of the commonplace subcity which engrosses. We need ummmm—inspiration.”

And at last settle upon the fact that maybe a red hat among other metaphors is just a red hat; that it doesn’t matter until the red hat is in words that it must become too much more; it only matters while in picture/image/painting –otherwise it is just a red hat.

Sebastian giggled. Kids in the Hall muted up in the Picture-In-Picture. And maybe Nik’s silky black hair had grown out to his jaw, so he just perturbed over at Holt; and some dork named Ed Speices sprawled dry-dead asleep on the unraveled loveseat; and this slight humidity of snow stirred from dark evening in flakes aching the most nauseating heart stared into me into that television, into The awesome faded. . . .red hat.

That I may ever conserve the flapped hysteria multiplying inside myself beneath mine which went further from the complexity it retained; imagine a thyroid swelled in that only thing which hardly remained; quick-connect the brain to spine like a wiring harness for a car stereo. That is where I assumed in an imperfect (: affecting THIS stare and sight—the reason I wore it backwards that is; the inescapable red hat—whack slapped on me would transform. As if that purpling dirty-white St. Louis symbol. I immediately threw on, the thing backwards with perfect ( cupping my long curls without adjusting—just beneath the surface; for just a mere minute, marveled with great big moonlight eyeballs that I was him. That I would be no longer fucked up.

Then plopped over to the mashed couch with thee old bright halo of mine incredibly flawless around his tightblues (: and celebrating that which forever lies ahead of us, the mmmfEEl-good story, wound into like the upset, the triumph. Storm the courts victorious. Thus squinted, wonder simultaneously like the moon stood vice versa with the earth… Wee glanced at each other with a ‘you have that feeling of some incapable translation unto the written atmosphere?’ enlightening magically, or with superpowers, ambitious, hey, hey hey, clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh; lugubriously pounded away in the nights’ gone hollow swallows, “Hey!” which Nik throttled, “you ridiculous fucking drunks” with a good chuckle, “I gotta get my camera, this is a lot more fucking hilarious and entertaining then you dorks realize.” So Holt retorted, “yeah but it’s staged, man.” . . . .

No one else in this young far-fetched world ever inculcated being someone else, flickering busrides out rolling windows and down long walks to the playgrounds, than perhaps Nik -who had the familiarity; and with such new-fangled world changing, rapidly blend like fiberoptic mesmerizing, he moved deeper monumental elevations; yet intellect and in some incredibleness released like some speed of light chorus we didn’t recognize, and burst exploding in the lenses, gratified at the satiation of the longed daydream, indulgence…. Nik placed within between them reflected flickers from bus windowed magnificence... like from the underground; in sagged tragic, criss-crossed moiling of circulating electricity,,,,, wired subcity sagged streets, affixed upon the two of us replacing each other that only they could see.

Nik; instrumental Sebastian, Ed or Andy; was Andy there? No. Andy was in Montana -- which I come to understand, in their presence, that, instrumentally, filmed these folks into ghosts. With great inexplicable compassion, inside, he showed these guys mimicking unnatural characteristics instantly, got them into deep held eyes open with ( and thus my brrrains in a whole new mad collision tried escaping the image he took; that Holt and I failed to see just looking at each other. And so on and so forth dip in the stream as if some mention; fail to avoid being left out, in reinventions of them, from beyond HERE; while possibly, these recreated dialogues and lines repeated in such humor, regenerated the moment initially watching near entire scenes reenacted; meaning, the precedent, the insanities of hearing minds become the extensions of playful souls being eternally, but much rearranged in an incomplete profound variation of oneself; turned over levels exclusively hinted to the lost thoughts registering or regressing, wormed-through-and breathed into thin air, from another person who was you. Dragged from that television loosening, like that the sound flew on the various wrestling Nik held as he filmed from the camera, the extra sounds and breathing of home videoing, adjustings and whatnot and so on, slotted into each grip conquering the once limitless hints and clues discerned from huhuhu the red that transformed our own configurations here. And we just performed minor things but could not tell until we watched it on the television ourselves.

My finagled fuddles with fruition but sub-spaced between quotes I had snuck off the radio or from liner notes; fiction placed in reveals such few words as the B side of a grey-clear Hysteria stretched out on the walls in the best possible way I could explain or capture the feeling, but never pulled myself to scribble just one, struggled to eliminate in the minor availability that remained impossible at times. We were listening to Depeche Mode’s Dreaming of Me later on, so maybe that is a good one to use at this moment. Anyways, after weaving from the daydreamed —nerves killed asleep in the littered place—since Holt decided to brave the streets and get beers at 7-11, where they never checked his ID; and poor far-gone Holt Donegal in fluke affirmations of his ambiguous mind was denied completely forgetting that he needed mine, expelled in the cure-all searches, for the grippe-clutch immolating sensations, that would eliminate the chronic perception of thinking one is dying; because I like had this heart hooked depression, despondent for the synthesizer, longing the child in me as if forever trapped in the 80s, never thriving, but those electronic keyboard sieves for a fabulous touch, ever interpret whirs of the bigger intervals of warm squirming in constant urine feeling, constantly pressed hard down as trickles throughout this awkward cardboard reaches to hold for just a bit [considering lethargy] --a garbling like 12 year old Holt sort of shriveled tiny, into smithereens remaining therein in the realm ----about awful, circumstantially audible with sublime within, gone into that horizon so fungus-poofy around the world, squirming almost frustrating deeper and deeper with a leaky pelvis; as he newly embraces, enlightened within some degree of just how huge and so brand new this ancient feeling takes over since Holt unbearably went, “It’s hard to just hold..”—

Compact thoughts that chikuckch unrecording wind onward automatically high-tech with spirits about the two-dimensional dreams and fades kind of inserted as stubs of cassettes broke loose, capture the radio, record over say a cream colored tape, say Bon Jovi New Jersey, record within the basement walls and go in behind video game counsels wired into three or four televisions ready by a few switches, chinkeyed jovial so intense and kindred and too occupied folks, nuts! and there’s Holt feeling there’s no way for me to write as such, like that, the way he drew the way I was alive just personally, and in every way he pictured had 10,000 stories, but since it may warrant just the gist of the story; my life is such converting and has always been meant to touch the two worlds collided, shaped the gridwork of such confusing Brutalist Architecture -because this is the novel and so represents itself in covetous times with some curved sharp sword just a picture a visual an image Sebastian drolls away with his cheeks full of his tongue, his whole face and sound effected like the thing comes to life. Just a picture. That’s all that I want to make without theme or argument, just another world. I can’t get out of here without.

Explaining everything or expecting it to be like that anyway, the wrong lines stand out more and uselessly converse ‘allthatnoiseandallthatsound’ the red hat which make your throat lump; feens lucid rocks, cramps, burns, jellyleg floppy sensations cozy, fuzzy eye-balled doom, tingles first with anxiety, transitions more good than either ends before or after, pills stomach floaties, convert cigarettes to ash instantly; the rock n’ roll gobbled conceding lonely interest –crazy- and the utmost difficulty concentrates finally, featuring the main veins here that crowd away the personality so we all share the chills on some same level blown wide open with drags and music and words and people I don’t want to be too extravagant or exaggerate the inability, but picture Holt. And he’s home, but Holt…he's UN-comfortable. He _ that! that was me!!

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Juice
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Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
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To celebrate the release of my new book, I am inviting you all to participate in a contest. The concept: Explore a person's struggle to come to terms with a strange, sinister, or surreal reality. This is a broad theme to encourage you to be as creative as you choose. Flash and full length stories welcome in horror, fantasy, surreal, or any hybrid genres. The only rule: Prose fiction only. Three winners will be chosen, who will receive 2000, 1000, or 500 coins + a signed copy of my collection.
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction
Price On Life
Aligned, synchronized, autonomy in subdivision suburban somewhere, placement inside this subcity, with an impact. “Makes you dream art and museummm cultural whatnots…. but in every attempt, we will always not have enough; to live inside of… Every powerful movement of the provincial day before us; somewhere in the mindset yet,” Holt’s bubbled skin surfaces, “won’t ever be enough; but there’s no heading back to what once was. And We’re going to make it and everything anyway we can anyway. We are going to put forth thee effort. So…c’mon, it’s awesome when you take off.”

We were solace with Kalifornia credits, with the all old knowledge in the way; and so pondered for more legends than myths we are already being compared to - something like this? --------- his fresh shaved head turned from Brilliant Fiction to me refracted, too pinching, wasted and slipped a little in these shakes right there, tremors or fidgets, low blood sugar nerves of some unnatural surrealism and anyway all masqueraded in a kind of sideswipe manner relapsed from some presence of the book Holt held up, out, the way one hand displays story-time to kindergarteners but leaving the cover towards us; mine wavering soul going simultaneously imploring the inverted opening

--the phenomenal Holt sprung off this mashed couch to sit upright, swiped a cigarette flip-box confound by theory and thin air, and rolled over for an answer, from him; and yet from myself, “sooo..wwwhatever yu-ha whatter weee gonna do then about this Sahn Diego mmopportunity?” released a stringing along of words kind of coyly; yet, he went akimbo in front of the stereo -cabinet –pupop! glass door drifting… and reached in/slid heavy flapping CD case to leaf, to persuade in the collided quiet galaxies mesmerizing reflectively. Seinfeld blipped right silent [on mute] in that same instance and pretended nothing and my admiration was something really celestial as I slouched, indolent, curious as though something sacred was upon us, after he went, “weeee need some music to break the hmmmediate silences and despair of the commonplace subcity which engrosses. We need ummmm—inspiration.”

And at last settle upon the fact that maybe a red hat among other metaphors is just a red hat; that it doesn’t matter until the red hat is in words that it must become too much more; it only matters while in picture/image/painting –otherwise it is just a red hat.

Sebastian giggled. Kids in the Hall muted up in the Picture-In-Picture. And maybe Nik’s silky black hair had grown out to his jaw, so he just perturbed over at Holt; and some dork named Ed Speices sprawled dry-dead asleep on the unraveled loveseat; and this slight humidity of snow stirred from dark evening in flakes aching the most nauseating heart stared into me into that television, into The awesome faded. . . .red hat.

That I may ever conserve the flapped hysteria multiplying inside myself beneath mine which went further from the complexity it retained; imagine a thyroid swelled in that only thing which hardly remained; quick-connect the brain to spine like a wiring harness for a car stereo. That is where I assumed in an imperfect (: affecting THIS stare and sight—the reason I wore it backwards that is; the inescapable red hat—whack slapped on me would transform. As if that purpling dirty-white St. Louis symbol. I immediately threw on, the thing backwards with perfect ( cupping my long curls without adjusting—just beneath the surface; for just a mere minute, marveled with great big moonlight eyeballs that I was him. That I would be no longer fucked up.

Then plopped over to the mashed couch with thee old bright halo of mine incredibly flawless around his tightblues (: and celebrating that which forever lies ahead of us, the mmmfEEl-good story, wound into like the upset, the triumph. Storm the courts victorious. Thus squinted, wonder simultaneously like the moon stood vice versa with the earth… Wee glanced at each other with a ‘you have that feeling of some incapable translation unto the written atmosphere?’ enlightening magically, or with superpowers, ambitious, hey, hey hey, clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh; lugubriously pounded away in the nights’ gone hollow swallows, “Hey!” which Nik throttled, “you ridiculous fucking drunks” with a good chuckle, “I gotta get my camera, this is a lot more fucking hilarious and entertaining then you dorks realize.” So Holt retorted, “yeah but it’s staged, man.” . . . .

No one else in this young far-fetched world ever inculcated being someone else, flickering busrides out rolling windows and down long walks to the playgrounds, than perhaps Nik -who had the familiarity; and with such new-fangled world changing, rapidly blend like fiberoptic mesmerizing, he moved deeper monumental elevations; yet intellect and in some incredibleness released like some speed of light chorus we didn’t recognize, and burst exploding in the lenses, gratified at the satiation of the longed daydream, indulgence…. Nik placed within between them reflected flickers from bus windowed magnificence... like from the underground; in sagged tragic, criss-crossed moiling of circulating electricity,,,,, wired subcity sagged streets, affixed upon the two of us replacing each other that only they could see.

Nik; instrumental Sebastian, Ed or Andy; was Andy there? No. Andy was in Montana -- which I come to understand, in their presence, that, instrumentally, filmed these folks into ghosts. With great inexplicable compassion, inside, he showed these guys mimicking unnatural characteristics instantly, got them into deep held eyes open with ( and thus my brrrains in a whole new mad collision tried escaping the image he took; that Holt and I failed to see just looking at each other. And so on and so forth dip in the stream as if some mention; fail to avoid being left out, in reinventions of them, from beyond HERE; while possibly, these recreated dialogues and lines repeated in such humor, regenerated the moment initially watching near entire scenes reenacted; meaning, the precedent, the insanities of hearing minds become the extensions of playful souls being eternally, but much rearranged in an incomplete profound variation of oneself; turned over levels exclusively hinted to the lost thoughts registering or regressing, wormed-through-and breathed into thin air, from another person who was you. Dragged from that television loosening, like that the sound flew on the various wrestling Nik held as he filmed from the camera, the extra sounds and breathing of home videoing, adjustings and whatnot and so on, slotted into each grip conquering the once limitless hints and clues discerned from huhuhu the red that transformed our own configurations here. And we just performed minor things but could not tell until we watched it on the television ourselves.

My finagled fuddles with fruition but sub-spaced between quotes I had snuck off the radio or from liner notes; fiction placed in reveals such few words as the B side of a grey-clear Hysteria stretched out on the walls in the best possible way I could explain or capture the feeling, but never pulled myself to scribble just one, struggled to eliminate in the minor availability that remained impossible at times. We were listening to Depeche Mode’s Dreaming of Me later on, so maybe that is a good one to use at this moment. Anyways, after weaving from the daydreamed —nerves killed asleep in the littered place—since Holt decided to brave the streets and get beers at 7-11, where they never checked his ID; and poor far-gone Holt Donegal in fluke affirmations of his ambiguous mind was denied completely forgetting that he needed mine, expelled in the cure-all searches, for the grippe-clutch immolating sensations, that would eliminate the chronic perception of thinking one is dying; because I like had this heart hooked depression, despondent for the synthesizer, longing the child in me as if forever trapped in the 80s, never thriving, but those electronic keyboard sieves for a fabulous touch, ever interpret whirs of the bigger intervals of warm squirming in constant urine feeling, constantly pressed hard down as trickles throughout this awkward cardboard reaches to hold for just a bit [considering lethargy] --a garbling like 12 year old Holt sort of shriveled tiny, into smithereens remaining therein in the realm ----about awful, circumstantially audible with sublime within, gone into that horizon so fungus-poofy around the world, squirming almost frustrating deeper and deeper with a leaky pelvis; as he newly embraces, enlightened within some degree of just how huge and so brand new this ancient feeling takes over since Holt unbearably went, “It’s hard to just hold..”—

Compact thoughts that chikuckch unrecording wind onward automatically high-tech with spirits about the two-dimensional dreams and fades kind of inserted as stubs of cassettes broke loose, capture the radio, record over say a cream colored tape, say Bon Jovi New Jersey, record within the basement walls and go in behind video game counsels wired into three or four televisions ready by a few switches, chinkeyed jovial so intense and kindred and too occupied folks, nuts! and there’s Holt feeling there’s no way for me to write as such, like that, the way he drew the way I was alive just personally, and in every way he pictured had 10,000 stories, but since it may warrant just the gist of the story; my life is such converting and has always been meant to touch the two worlds collided, shaped the gridwork of such confusing Brutalist Architecture -because this is the novel and so represents itself in covetous times with some curved sharp sword just a picture a visual an image Sebastian drolls away with his cheeks full of his tongue, his whole face and sound effected like the thing comes to life. Just a picture. That’s all that I want to make without theme or argument, just another world. I can’t get out of here without.
Explaining everything or expecting it to be like that anyway, the wrong lines stand out more and uselessly converse ‘allthatnoiseandallthatsound’ the red hat which make your throat lump; feens lucid rocks, cramps, burns, jellyleg floppy sensations cozy, fuzzy eye-balled doom, tingles first with anxiety, transitions more good than either ends before or after, pills stomach floaties, convert cigarettes to ash instantly; the rock n’ roll gobbled conceding lonely interest –crazy- and the utmost difficulty concentrates finally, featuring the main veins here that crowd away the personality so we all share the chills on some same level blown wide open with drags and music and words and people I don’t want to be too extravagant or exaggerate the inability, but picture Holt. And he’s home, but Holt…he's UN-comfortable. He _ that! that was me!!
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