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I wonder what net I can knit to capture you And what tints I can sift to loose this nasty hue

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

spits in spirits while drinking spirits

Pink sleet beats on
my from tongue wrung umbrella
on pink streets me feets strum
a hum hung with a ped o' drum

the formed storm isn't ush’al conform
the drops i kicks up do licks
the fella in the umbrella cellar
when facing the pallet based precipitation

it's raining tongues, slugs shot from guns
like facial crumbs, mastication victims
it's a drizzle of dribble, salivary spittle
a puddle to muddle with a disgruntled word stubble

Pink sleet at my feet brings soft flesh street heat
i conceit with the umbrellas defeat and proceed
to be tasted, basted in wasted in slips of the tongue
slippin the thumb past the gums to make sure i still have one

with the salvias cumulus above to humble us
and tumble us in continuous taste buds thus
my flavor's savored with precipitating favor
in unsheltered seats i peek the pink sleet

Pink sleet indeed, spit beads and seeds that proceed
under the tongues urges, emerges, and surge as reeds
reeds to read the palatable brain feed
they grow in thick tufts and bludgeoned by pink stuffs

flesh colored anvils that tumble and ramble a preamble of psychobabble
their evictions of dictions have wet the roads, are smitten
with low leafed leaflets grown by beefed teethless
mouth contents, content with fervent mispronouncements

the pink sleet puddles in the streets in piles of beat meat
to eat the thin sheets of gravel based taste
Praise the twelve sons, i believe it is raining tongues


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