Monday, October 29, 2007

Technicolor Web of Pain

Sweet armadillos under strange skies. Sweet trees making fruit in great dreams. Sweet sweetness sinking while scaling pavement around quarters' edges, the armadillo said. I miss the way you shake that sweet butter tree of fruit ass fruit. I'm a dreaming disease. I'm making the whole nightmare sick until the sickness feels just sick, just enough. Sometimes pieces of giant skies make new designs that explode from veins inside God. Tonght we'll hibernate under blankets for a dozen minutes. A fly is only long between boundaries constructed in God's fist. Eleven geniuses dine on roast anything and ten idiots are drinking nine little goblets of milk.