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_splice_the_union
whole__and__unstable
need_eyes_to_see_?
we_are
_one_
_not_
the_same
they_will_become
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_hook_
into_the
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a_curious_cell
_pulsed___
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flayed
to_perfection
_all___weeping_incision
_sound_
_a_blade?
slicing_delicate_traces
_a_braille
by_which_we_hear
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:
:..::...
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:......:::
do_not_heal_this_abrasion
harsh_upon_the_skin
glitched_and_brutal
_beautiful_
at_last
more_than_mere
__machine__
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_bin_001___text.
Very affected by the death of the Father Christmas last December,
it was believed that there were only large hard ones and horrible brats.
These nerves, with flower of skin,
purer of any slag than those of its predecessors.
listen,
it is tearing.
and we are Freezing in haunted toilets.
Room's of children who did not care,
lay waiting for the large bearded one,
it's hood full with gifts.
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_bin_002___text.
the heart
_stop.
again and again.
A well prepared Potpouri,
smelled sweeter after anarchy and welfare (less) disorder
and not simply only a bad get-a-got, for
those are harsh merged,
full noise,
sound first at will in their sound,
and...
melodies.
For one into the ears?
then again by driving?
....and then swallowed?
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_bin_003___text.
There are six here,
first for the major unit.
From the six,
(the too small)
one could discover -
(with the random conk)
eptiloid, fischoid or intelligent blue shade?
Lord,
is all well?
can the machine be improvised?
Surely the final console is only one neutral box?
we beseech you...
bring the air of mystery and femininity to this hell
after all, they bestow pleasure whilst giving birth.
Bring forth the hour....
...of the great purging!
...of the MASSIVE ramming of the precedents!
AMEN! for the station-wagon,
and the Bastard which rides it.
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The twelve-year-old boy Emil table-leg,
validity addicted and power-hungry,
lives with its nut/mother
(a contrast between nervous rattling and ambient tablecloths)
in the rigid Hut at the station zoo.
Both are individually held and behaviour-disturbed,
one could fear for Emil table-leg's legitimacy,
If mouth up - to eyes too,
(Needle sharing) mentions,
and ping-pong suggestives.
The nut/mother would stretch itself to straddle
Gustav with the horn,
after all nobody would have counted on the piercing's success,
nor the electrical skirt, which was cooked to take head,
'i LOVE it when it burns'. (G)
_
_
As the figure of the nut/mother clutching it's eggs,
leaves the hotel
to smoke some cigs (approved or not)
The gentleman, punctuate bouts of spraying itselves with bad red wine,
to revel in spineless tittle-tattle,
'Has it chopped off it's bouRRine
in order to penetrate the shark fish'? - ha! ha! ha!
...
.....
......so, it would appear to be true...
the small bag is indeed rather talked about.
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It becomes bad,
trembles it's intern,
it's elementary needs are given up,
The Paranoia which makes it disappear,
(hostilely)
only to be caught again
with cakes and chips,
and then,
one can only tremble with it.
.
..
This paralysed dissolution,
contributed to the formation of it's character.
"Give it an equitable employment",
a positive influence to over-exert?.
Thus with the collar,
it becomes deformed
and perhaps also it becomes mental,
(time the fingers)
Time for claws,
animal's together,
a blood quantity,
Elephant's in a porcelain shop.
A blow to Hedonism and the material goods,
A blow also to the practice of non-violence,
-the product is useless-
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a desire survives for living,
stronger than all.
.
.
Bending atomic,
in a field of poppies,
delivering us from,
the ungrateful jobs,
the out of reach chicks
and all these beautiful ugly people.
.
.
the medium of despair
effectively destroying.
.
.
The space between two pints of beer,
the blandness of a microwave meal,
a cold cup of tea,
a knackered telly.
.
Monday morning...
.
and one sees the bodies eaten.
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Open toilets.
contain it's history,
29 year's old,
It's life is ugly,
Shaken enough,
made looser.
(made loser).
it's life,
in the house
with two joined tenants.
(who hate themselves)
Number (1) one,
an authoritative figure,
which criticizes all.
the other is large and thick,
Number (2) two,
Open Toilets are its history
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Dark the cordial one,
a normal Mister,
It's type has the great class,
it weave's celestial,
hidden under darker watery layers.
Insolate in it's simplicity and sensitivity.
more Dark than cordial,
it's appetite for a raw nudity
worms at the recesses of it's intimacy.
a small languid dislocation,
before the melancholy saturates,
becomes crystalline,
but let us not speak of the powder,
that smallest of obstacles,
a fist blow,
an imparable blow.
The butterfly net
which captures its breath.
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The first cut of the cords of day
a coagulated activity,
an inexorable opening to its unlubricated kingdom.
Being wholly dependent upon phonetic transport,
it embellishes its whimsy's,
Igniting itself a long-forgotten fox trot,
Singing itself a harmful duet.
Breathing in the sad herbs
breathing to balance
a rhythmic circling
a groping for its broken social scene.
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_bin_010___text.
........to have suffered, under a marked isolation, to become the nearly non-existent.
Small family groups are deciding just that, they are 'to be parked' with the crate illness.
Family ���Y7
"We are a small group by family, we are lost in a cultural emptiness, weighed down by the luggage of mankind.
We need to tackle the knots of our problems, these substances that feed our desperation,
the toxic relations, the poisoness queues and the evil of property. Above all we no longer want to be susceptible
to the Justice of the Forehead"
Family ���Z2
"This experience will carry fruit, it (the illness) lets the values of the group live, we will extend our virtual habitats
and in turn create the 'conscience field'. The mature will be able to root, whilst the young who were blinded by
the IGNORANCE will be free to have beautiful conceptions"
The illness may lay dormant in some family members for upto 30 years, leading to increased cases of rejection and neglect.
This sense of 'loss' often results in a diminished responsibilty invariably resulting with the individual being destroyed.
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