In a drive
for shared numbers, the vest becomes the mark. Big newspapers roll into
submission, go viral. The coffee cup, the coffee mug and the pot of coffee
becomes sour. Tea leafs and sugar battle for the concept of flavor. Legs,
hairless, smooth and non-criminal, women of ice, men of ice, Iceman and
Icewoman, spread across dark skies in the form of small dots – lightning the
way.
Harassment.
Dreams.
Unrelated
issues.
Dresses.
Wet farts.
Plastic plants. Nick of time. Chewing gum. Skyscraper stairs. Bubble wraps.
Pigs with pink ponytails and ties on. Invested in the vest. Peers and Gynters.
No, wait, is this trolling? I think this is trolling. Right? Poetic blood
singing? Oh. Never mind, then.
September is
when you wake up. Past ending. Green days ahead as the end of November
approaches. Even monkeys grabbing branches and tree trunks hover above the
cloud number eight and seven to score points with an Olympic god upholding the
maps.
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