Pout

Posted: November 21, 2013 in Sliding For New Air

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– Jazz. I would not recognise this if it bit me.

– The chaos clash lite version between walking waking up and mild mild heavy lidded dissolution keeps keeps playing. There is a message in this somewhere somewhere this transition time I think this be bop back into back into a life that I thought had been gone A flaneur revisited for the new now – a grow old consciously consciously something about repeat – is this a vision thing, a look must look at what we are focusing away from these what days – I do not know that they are as such days just segments of a robot’s dream production line production!

– I can see clunk fingers arthritically bolted segments, sad sad eyes lidded eyes down eyes brow down head down where is the sky.
Slumped down this rough bolted beast this design death this face-stricken symbol what struckness stuck not in mud but clamped in place the space defigned designed stiff gun-edged and clunky. Nothing moves. Nothing is allowed to expand out of, away from, itself, its bang of other recorded recognition. Its life.

– Jump. A spring-wave initiate, a boundary celebration, a gull cry, long long nice piercing, out of Winter height and flight, and right,
weak sun, and light. Season’s turn being the only measure, the necessary, which which way, transition late yet right, a fight still late still flight and yet and yet still right. Inertiaed flight. The only type. Take off right. Take off right.

– Throw that rhythm that light that right throw that night throw that sight throw that key that jazz that light new bee. That light.

– Throw that me

– That lyrical – ly.

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