#9 (b)

among its box of mornings, the local stairway: slapping before ancient abstraction, yet loved somewhat late day a man become a booming just another magic is trapped: emerged machine, coalesce hydra: eyes glaring up at me, my quotidian turntables, an animal auditioning to be a restraint is a wet adam sun: fuck you: what eternal anything-can-happen-time?: breasts, on and beneath silver into yet another returned alone lacks the courage to chew on piles of augured bones in the violet from hovers: I can see rites, drums blowing, urinating from the concrete: the sea a thousand cheeks right here, right now, the cloud's lycanthropy: the druggy realms: events terrestrial: lunar pataphysical critiques fusing with warbling outside the artillery pink until we asylum, the new and germanic in the sunshine conch-shells of indecent popping, and of this pagan music I would have just assumed