ONLINE CONTENT PROVIDER

I paint the whites of my eyes.
I paint them green, with gradations
absconding. I paint my eyes
the same as the colors of mirrors reveal.

Color is sex. It arcs
out of the three-dimensional
in a bend that is seditious, is collage
of relation and expectance. What
exception to this, that
I point to the plain of my eyes, and
flying
know only their insides as a verso of
dimming!

Shoves a dissolves of crystal in your see the personal
of sits
rigid but within on no faults in the coloring but
sighs away from
us explosion rear restaurant centering waits stilly
cooling on
glass in everything show business bitterness as timid
so
relentless teleportation dimensioned white colors low
sitting at
pasture rivets endanger cup funnel churl knives in
cornea cochlea
slow buildings

After you go to work, which is usual in this, I go out
on the
back porch and sit with a cigarette in my hand trying
to read.

I am waiting to render my music as an mp3.

Several reasons why site is wonderful, while sitting
here, coat
my tongue just as well as if they were online literary
venues,
all of which contain work similar to yours and yet
refuse to
publish her. He stands up, angular head just conically
brushing
the low-flung ceiling elegant as a woman's hand pastry
clumped in
with exotic scale tabulature that makes possible in
skeletal
upbringing the child's ultimate uselessness as a
reason to sit
and bitch and moan about almost totally unacceptable
behavior,
anon. Let the games begin, she thinks. Moss erupts on
both sides
of the trees in Richmond Virginia. They swung across a
fleshless
pool of dimming radar eqipment that couldn't scan the
horizon
anymore; sitting back down, he notices the wild
breathing of
flaneur yarn spun winded around his facial gestures. I
doubt very
seriously that the color of this font is as pleasing
as a deep
throat full of verbs.

Gradually, I write the seminal
influence of color across
my hands. It's night is
drawing near, shadows
in the very shape of liquid
dusk suddenly, like a rain
or a relief from under a vellum sky.
That I want to tear your clothes off, or
your skin, that I am a ghost seeking
embodiment, bodes harm on a casing
that limns out review material for the
online content provider, 1967, and
and was wash with gray saw fart tarsel.
Getting by. I pint my hunds gray, thee

sane colour as you, who imprint the temporal
with heat the size of reading, wedding
flesh to neuralgia, asterisks to
resin stacked and garbage calculated, with algebra
on my mind again, how it soothes to collapse
variables on a level with de Kooning.
These exceptions to green are a delicious
slow building romance, one
that leaves her alone in a humming room, eyes
locked safely behind crystal watching him monitor
the sluggish eroticism that servers erupt into

when stroked.

=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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