Sunday, May 12, 2013

Michael Dec

Pawn Shops and Hillbillies

 Well, I look  a mrror of bones aged guy who has few real friends. I feed birds, smoked ham, sourtrout get awkward wind my goat knucles in lun transmission fluid, kick out of all their antics, except Alice
when some kind of storm and am sailing into  a three-fisted Polack mirrored my second childhood.
a few seconds ago · Like, dig me, I'm a Pygmy in eternal twilight
As if a stormchaser in the toilet, tampoon with radar withdrawn beard shovels "vowels"at the assumed enemy state.
The goddamn state. (The phony dunce cap to avenge) (perpendicu£ar}
There are laws that were written by a guy & there's the right thing thee moral imperative floods you itch skullcap itchy skullcap baby disease (he's got a great disease!)
the mind recoils like a shotgun boogie ghost; Haint @ copshop damn lunar bungling
Girl, please to take shrubbery temperature use rubber thermometer (belted)
Rust my knuckles, automatically feeding the monkey til near puke, sardined disadvantages,
like the dustbowl thunder on the pitch, something a porcupine would say lost in space
You ooze haze with your peanutbutter? Dialectics kill.
Return to kicking pillbugs ant rendering watch, lender, I owe you a eraser? That's grammatical bombast at age 8.
Enuf, or too much, as Blake sez.
I will not brutalize his waveforms.
Hail the dancing worms! the government drug tests!

What burns well with ginger?

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