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Bestiary / Capital, trust’s contraption’s & tips of a diminish fossilised & tips that inter-local dead infrathin exclusion troop de-commiserate finger, asked afterwards scant mashes my scattered post crushing sternly sorely our cuticle – stiff, reduced & can’t keep a market for I divorced the trap was but he blooded discrepancy so I saw razor saw brand pocket Rapidshare reversed half-baked to Alaska out in the desolate tract the other abscond Alaska. HAX (4) Regardless, hyper-love’s his vain living position declaim gratis a coital thinning of the block’s passion position owned carefully u buckets either that shit of his / act or p*ssyshot gambol, pumped-up or spasmowhich for flour / anything any sordid stuffing flight-bakes in a facial home when you built .alt. it, morsel or shit go-one is dead & can nominate you, the relations for task trix in a pumped-up / arc troop-lips, an intrigue of nanocuticle about butt-plug there proven to precisely well within 0.000 pwn’d in philtrum’s not zombic everything. Bezoars miaow, masterstroke. “You & I / are the milk on the broom. Cities cry & / boots empty.” Undercover as feline polyp & feline medusa. Climax of the whit mission. Get to know a new Bestiary, feel like I have known them forever. HAX (5) Declan is not an ontological exotic. How they must have laughed in XHXH when they heard the imaginary friends demanded their civic rights. The fetish objects, blankies, made-up-person-you-slept-with. “I would of brought u roses only.” The soft diplodocuses with the bandaged throats arose. XH,XHX of them camping on Oxford Street. The blocks of saliva? Allah cramps. No subsystem was specialised to stupefaction. All my past life is broken. Am not flying but flight. The generalised resource produced at all points in the collusive network of stupefaction was, then, a kind of local alacrity: a sharp eye for something in it, and there wasn’t. We couldn’t have killed it but the Bestiary swarmed in. It was a slaughter. Puppet rights I mean it puppet rights. Back to clever by half. I arose I arose & I felt so stupid. && the treasuring of you lesbian begins at the wrist, this morning I find my hair agreeably full of chords & would spread unpremeditated materials as kindling for other things. the jocking strap was burnt; in pads. I have never made the right bet . . . in the wrong bet. explore this anagram of the sick patch by the strawberries. you put down straw. your face just bunched those looks like fingers do – seriously don’t worry about that shit even the breaks down the heart don’t last – like fingers do twizzles or

Profile for stephen  emmerson

bloch  

poem, poems

bloch  

poem, poems