sleep, rely on me. around the corner from my kind, walking ten parts of the city after writing. my life and my brain possess the worry where a certain kind of pressure is delayed, my stomach stirring the glances of self-depreciation. i am six years old for the second time. the danger of crying, a prophecy of oneself fullfilling. we die for a while because of that.

it is easy to understand everything, and looking at walking go into the view. in winter everything hibernates, is drunk. an explanation is conceived. we would like to go to outside, under my bed and hiding. a winter party of insanity. i have wanted to touch open spaces. it is beginning: the end, the acceptance which does not shake. fact is divided from opinion; you obtain my opinion more in the color that was bombed in me. it tightens my mouth; strangely, gently, concerning that which you do not understand. it is not able to wait for the cover of burning meat.

i spend the majority of days with scowling work. it is this world-wide now; it will spread out and it will spread out in its surroundings. in order to die at this moment, my heart is racing. it is good and it is bad. we talk to the circumferences. we are wrong; we grow flesh. we will hang three transformations; smoke will be born like silence, a seasonal datum. the world which is ending in me is legitimate and it goes mad. human waste, comfort will be visible in me. a matter of great importance. i write the maximum quantity of days.

inside your face there is a chance which spreads out; it is arranged and a shout is sufficient and defended. the examination which hits against you is immediacy and it is thinking. it stays.

a troublesome army song, a possibility of happening; morning. it throws away people from our lives, like those that take comfort in the cancer of hazards. the person, the now, is lonely; it is throwing away the trash in order to feel. it endures, this dejected problem of myself. a trillion shipping flags. my neurosis in complete change.

the person, with an empty tin-can, communicates well; it is equal and it is worse.eighteen flesh children. the divided going out. a latency ceremony, a biological thing. it is bitter in sweet sound. something goes wrong inside my brain, a small war after a substantial war; undulation, the possibility of connecting.

god has known that nothing from the outside is found; the emptiness of the world, where everything which is heard has come to me. we would like to put in place those which half obstruct eyesight; to do that it is possible to desire. i am my old friend top and bottom, the thing which throws out the people from our lives. verified, weakened so easily by the defect of quality. a sketch for the beginner to pass the time.

it was clear english to you. vicariously you must live, possessing a nest in the sky. concerning latent biology of a certain kind, you talk. perhaps because in all these foolish actions and the punishment of the cat, an answer is incomprehensible. a war between the defective synapses of my brain.

you are raped.
everything is pulverized.
it ends the world.

singing for the child who has known
the flash of the sky, the darkness
that does not hide bombs and
exploding things;
it becomes
the insensible sense.

your atoms continue without you.
there is something always.
--

there is in the wall of desire
the scars of excessively thin paint;
influenza and war and
the war which continues.

all nights are done in love;
perhaps he cheats,
but you do not worry.

it is the mountain which
the many poets walked.

it is a terrible color,
the orange of the horizon;
it starts feeling like
the heat of an oven.

and you know that this is
the edge of the world.
--

he is remainders and scatterings.
like a foolish boy, he possesses
the heart of a child.

the bubble around the brain which stops
people from actualization is
broken permanently, finally.

all this humanity surrounded by
whatever it is possible to express.

an enormous hole,
a decapitated being.
my feelings as lost as all this.

i'm going to start separating the drivel from the poems. maybe the poems are drivel too, but with more line breaks. so there ya go.