Bent orchestral trim

when raininghorse dutifully entered the race, bent orchestral trim decorated those points of interest up and down his face, musical bells drawn and quartered through butchered beasts in time, tearing down sledded streets of snow with karaoke close behind. it was your ghostly haunting voice and sway that drove him from the barn that day, your overtures beguiling eyes both opened closed and tearing skies apart with burning gaze, the ice turned water falling from those rafters, second phase. beneath this bed of sound, some building tidal vibration commenting on all that's fallen down, held apart like legs of frogs when boys on hunting mission take it upon themselves to starve nutrition, dirt in meat collapsed all perfectly and lapsed ministry of justice anglers fishing in the sea, all are fed and sent to bed where perfectly the bentwood frame eclipses moontide wailing from viola and fiddlehead, where did forest hollows find you cringing in the cold and warm you with her breath, that countless curve of old religion, raininghorse is taking in this vision.

Harvey trampoline

having recently been ignited, flames fanned, burnt to a crisp, fallen ashes swept up in wind, blown to four corners of the earth, resurrected, posted onto the web, bled into a billion screens as digital rain, nougat candy with peanuts eaten in bed, this reaction to dandelion antipathy obsession growing pale at the altar when marriage meets boxer-wrestler hybrid on the stage, harvey race and larry in twin city wrangle 1963, my one professional bout, poster lost sometime in the next decade, our family moved every two years from the time I was 9 until I was 17, what does your father know about those basement afterthoughts, quiet invitations to come downstairs and roil against the established trampoline safety recommendations, interspersed with western mass drive on 3 cylinders in comer caravan, that was a 62, when the numerologist ended up living in the round orange chair for 2 weeks, giving my insight into 3, 4 (the open cup) and all other root indicators, then gave up the violin to practice insanity, where the b.u. bridge walkway came to represent all manner of risk, no insurance available at the time of accident, on blackmer brother cassette release, playing for the mythical lori who lived in somerville, not to mention my green thongs melting into the central square payment on my first walk through the city, courtney on my back, searching for a way back home, for water, for shade.