first 3 chapters (Square Tree)

…Waking up after Church…


Fated since birth to belch the fires of flaming infernoistic metaphors, mind totting miracles give birth to the breaths that crease the skies of foreign dungeons. These altruistic minds mingle with Denver’s hatred and gift the hours in between the runaway words of waking daughters to the injections of half hearted pimps, pondering their lives through the eyes of others, leaving behind trails of teeth marks. Dollars need to be acquired and wired through Peruvian eyes still have no limits and oasis like qualities and I still feel the breaths of brain totting miracles, after all lives are full of haunted ghosts scattered across the ages of time feeling the weight of the scale. Proofs are bought and sold at local establishments, sitting across from boring eyes blaring their secret intentions into high bred technology, hunted with womb like delinquency. Covered with the pain of thieves shivering over borders and the listening words of taking the liquid murderous grasps of children’s sky bound coughs are the weary worded hearts that show seconds of the clock as it ticks. And this is how it works from the philosophical mind of mental servant 03, hating the haunted seconds that blaze with literal intentions, but seeing the qualities of staying intact upon the end of heart beating moments in the presence of visible angles. Halo’s attached to the strings that lead the collared wolf around the cardboard jungle looking for his lost hammer, honing in on doves as they breathe the baptizing seconds of slightly bigger sighs then when they are in the presence of your everyday wondering victim of mind totting elegance. Only the faintly pulsing memory of missions brings him back to wander among the living. So these hours go, stirring tea with colder fingers running through forests with the lingering denial of logic holding on with a resting count attached to the unlucky bastards who believe they where wanted back among the laughing cardinals and liquidating brilliant men who ponder such questions as to whether or not God lounges in the the graying lands placing bets with Lucifer as to which way will bring the billionth man or women to their grave. Liking some a little more than others, realizing that the general masses should give up the debate and focus on what really matters, flesh and mingled remedies with ages and shifting laws along with languages. Who would want to spend their idol after pain like seconds watching the vile things that man does behind shuttered eyes? To borrow a thought with ability to pay it back, I don’t even think that Dorian Gray would bring forth a second page of such a blatant bat of the eye, with these withering souls reaching through gravely gray lives with promises they can’t fulfill. Bitten by waning dragons lounging within a chemical based mystery and carded by a massage lingering prostitute in the middle of Kings Cross, I lounged out with the luck of several leprechauns and pay the toll for these here laughing molds that form with beetle like tendencies. I have had my fill of circular relaxation metaphors, placed inside my mind at the beginning of time without the love that gingerly places the arms around my blood line, ever feeling the innocent innocuous beginnings of shed theories are the arms of left over burnings of the night skies, well loved daughters calling with the grace of a silver star finding their homes and followed by a well wept for humble writer with manors acquired from the winds of time. He finds his food in the woods with the nymphs and elves that blare the burning seconds on these screens of fabricated science. Returning to the point at hand and remaining loyal to oneself you find white inked hair gracing your vision with the sleeping eyes of invocations becoming one and widened by tea and herbal remedies you will find that to take from a star a wounded second is worth a well whipped back and bludgeoned minute left in the view of hardened nocturnal natures and loving dove like creatures alike. You have only to look at a sideways angle to see. Other then this is respect and castes formed through these lingering brooding moments followed by accomplishments and their warders. Laying dead at the feet of our hollow servant are many halos, and if you can forgive me the obvious words that spill from my fingers as the ability in your spirit moves with weights attached and knowledge acquired you will see that angles are far from lambs as they crease the hours that mold our mingled mind states carding oil barrels and brain matter across the lingering days of shinny pants and well bent models. Her heart is like a cousin or a sister or some long lost identity while love falls from the past members of family’s carded cares, hoping hollow freights from frozen lands to preserve the here and now for just a little longer. Magic floats out of my pulsing hands drawing liquid strategies on how we should best leave these maniacal deaths without their needed homes. Eureka a wolf has found the throat of another well bled beauty tearing the sinewy salts from within her hollow shrieking throat, and again finds not the energy to see if pain has the motivation to lift his weary head and utter a breath of regret with his ax bleeding the barely beating footprints of from now until whenever she gets out of the bathroom and finds the weary words about going home and relieving this ever present pain that requires enough room to fill a far away hole in the ground. Our mission, back to our mission to take, what was taken and taken from who, from the beginning the castles breathing walls have found their lingering presence with bleeding bottles attached to I knew it would works and carded for dollars in this life. So how, how could one possibly piece together the rest with this fallen gift so close to the heart of the matter, flipping through the channels looking for a languid thought to bury its breaths within my pillow. How chains, tolerance, what was taken, replaced with what and too what limit? With ease the afterlife separates itself like the angles on a changing spherical weather ball laughed into existence on the birthday of the line of Kings, showing his head with weaving goose like charm. Believe me? You shouldn’t her breath is like a dawn after all night vampiring and pits smell of rotten apples found in lost orchards in the far distant castle of denial of showers as love visits the hardly beating cell of the globe trotter, the loving wonder child. Maybe a little too close to the truth, he is. But change falls from phosphorescent fingers in the jungles of time. What if I was falling and a child appeared as if in a dream and I anciently used it as a foothold and kicked off of him so as to save my own life, Gilbert would I still be among the wall bled victims found with your ax in the heart of California? Yes you idiot child now this bloody question you bring to me has made me loose the focus on this arcian glass of wine that was placed so pleasantly in my rose bud hands. So find me a tunnel with tangled weaving weeping thoughts or face the fastidious web of responsibilities totted by the mind of Jaria who loves the tests of whether or not E and J should be shaken or stirred, and the ideology behind hiding my lingering thought within the floating ideas of the lion den sleeper reasoning with today like logic as to what happened in the days of Michaels campaign around Scotland found with Martyred heart beats, knowing that demons love Jesus as well and proving it by looking at the pain relieved from the heart of Legion found in flying pigs circling the waves of winters creation, unfathomed and buried in a land further to the north and a little too high. Know this then, Moses was a fighter and took the lives of women and children after the battles that bled in the uniting of the 12 tribes when taking the 300,000 men women and children who had surrounded themselves in a village of hardly beating seconds found with visceral thoughts and no door and no ability to regroup, then finding these breaths is really quite simple. Seattle? Check the rain drowns your forests. Vegas? Check the collars pull from within your essence leaving you the poorest. Atlanta finds, due to the walls closing in, but also must answer for the ability to figure out the scale at the age of first breaths. So give or take your future, you will learn your answered qualities. Lives leave with choice and the geese fly with the winds, would it not depend on then what you do after? What is rape but a battered soul? What is life in the willows of time? Do these choices seem to be easy? Or do rainbows bring forth her smile better then, better then, well all women are different so who knows? I would not want to be the one who found a battered fish on the floor after one heart wielded the wings of this eternal dragon through space and time to find it a home within your weary words being pulled apart for a few flagrant ponderences, leaving chained the dying wolf within the caverns of time, found on a trip round the pond looking at shrubs near the side starving and needing something to fill a stomach, appearing next to his chisel and hammer possibly letting slip a few words or Valkeryie like blessings or maybe not. In all things this is present, life with limits or no life no limits or a combination remembering the key to this entire puzzle being the drawing together with a 100%, knowing by a look whether or not you belong in the musical meadows or the tortured chambers that have Cherubim like guardians appearing in children’s stories as laughing faces or in operas with bleeding tears carding their thoughts around in one person shows. Really though one can only repeat oneself so many times before it begins to sink into the meaty flesh of science, holding forth the ideals of queens raving sentences and leaving what is left for other leering writers, the birds flying over the moon leaving these weeping seconds with in the winds of time, mused by some introspective Baccite lingering on the outside of my vision serving the better cause with the lighted eyes that really turn dark a lot easier when the sun is shining, but lovely just the same. Know that I have proven this with strength of spirit and Armageddon like performances that still take place in our silent town of hardened workers and Wild West totting flower children. Just know that I know what I am talking about or bury your ear next to my chest in this day and age, with voices attached to storms and winds attached to the brave, this is truly a great time to living.









…The 16 Eyes of 8 Lives…



Hearts spill a crude oil that mingles with the flowers toils and the soil sprouts earthworms like a route taken in servitude. Murder you with crows, heard of you like rose and the earth spins clockwise and works flow like most with a steady beat of pulsing drum, insert your miracles into my lungs. Make sure they breathe with bartender like stamina, and move with the grace of an ambulance. Eyes shiver with the darkness that sheaths its celibacy after a lengthy discussion with water beaten victims carrying knives next to dancing thoughts; vitamins instead of rocks tumble down the mountain and gather moss. What if I don’t want to carry your fate? Crowds of pleasure circulate. Motivations for these lengthy breaths are that some don’t bury books within their breasts, moving to the pulse of different rent. Their moving castles hit the mountain tops and topple rolling gently down the hill. Luckily the killing spree ended with lethargy and the trees speak to me, so I climb to the top and bleed. Drops of my life’s essence fall untouched among the dirt and leaves then congeal to form a blazing image of man, color of digress. His life was stolen and so goes my lingering denial of embittered presence, like a ghost rotating around my middle finger, pointed over the shoulder of denial of all things holy. All things dark leave bite marks upon my ark and your illogical point of view places fire within the admired siring bringing about the ingrained pain that creases my lettered veins, surviving the weather and feeling each drop of rain. Removed the implanted chip of conspiracy and rant with duality, both sides strive to offer the musical motivation that creases the love of our saintly embittered biting toothy nation placed in chalk around the pavement while the wind stays the same, storms embrace the pain and my wings remove any chance of hovering near the steeples way. Fly with me to the islands of the obscene, hoping for the bus to make just one more stop, eyes closed fingers crossed and then off again, to find the land where lions lay soaking in the cleanest rays of sunshine, blind with eyes of murdered illogical replicants, hoping that with computer board minds they won’t vote republican and cast off any chance of removing the pelican from the rookery. Wake each mourning to tea and cookies. Into the glowing bowl goes my heart, removed is all form of doubt placed at my feet like the hostility of my artillery while imaginary ghosts hover near my coat and my way of thinking removes the clouds from your mind, hanging onto the thoughts that create rocks and breathe water waking the earthly daughter. Lingering near the slaughtered lines of mingling crimes, rhymes are mystery and the blind find that angles carry mortal ailments like necessity and need, but what do they eat and where do they feed? To whom do I speak when I’ve murdered a lie? Are you on the same path as I? Where does Karma fit into this predicament? And how is it that Lucy still finds the air clean and chalk for pavement? If these coins drop from the hands of alienated strangers how much further do we need to go before we can safely say that the world is just my murdered friend hoping on one leg and imitating a penguin, frozen in the arctic lands being eaten by whale who then eats a squid, several other whales die. These eyes are frozen on the creation of time, breathing with the essence of light. Closed is the mind that breaths for two, so now I have the truth of it, argue until the both sides will show their deciphered abilities to go underground and come back glowing green, owing those who cross the flowing streams. Yellow eyes follow the sun around the moon, the moon around my arms and my arms as they bring out the knot that makes your wish the stars desire, born from the soil to the fire I retire. If harps would help you, then harps you have echoes increase the blend of epitomes across the inflicted disease of friends and hommies, costing the lifted crease of grins and the bony. Gifted fleas and gin, blameless mind tracks crimes with the coated armor of lives lingering near the earthy daughter, from the bottom of the sea I have risen and feel no need to enter your prison with prism hands shedding rainbows on your life, feeling not the need to leave them in your might and years pass within this carnival, escaping the radars of sonic bats, acrobats and love strewn images impaled the minds of countless trails, embedded around the lingering pen of accusation for no more than pennies attached to strings that lead to unleaded gasoline dreams, just to get the lion out of the darkness and into the light. River boats sail through the jungle and the jungle wraps its denial of life around the mindless decrepit pitiless, dressed in the gothic clothes of tonic foes, and within all this is the wind that goes, sin with me as dandy lions blow, and tears fill the hours of winters mote. Castles and traffic hollow entropedic laugh next to heart shimmering hedonists who mean more to showers then they know, glaring through their embryo’s, coughing and scoffing and finding the fiending arrows nestled next to their wish to be, more than a bee to carry the queen her dreams. But on this astral plane, looking at galaxies far away, earning your angle wings for the use of stupidity, the salts of the oceans carry my fluidity, laying next to the stream is a little like offering to read a book conjured through the waning image of Cassidy, as he breaks the mold off the saudered weld of the meaning, knowing that it is not possible to go faster than his demon took to find his fate, for at the speed of progre,s Flying through the winds of the roads at speeds that break and wheels that grate, Hate to know what it took to find his fate, For at the speed of progress I leave tsunamis in my wake, A little like the figure 8, and slightly more than the opposite of gray. Fiending for the Minotaur to die with his hands around the neck of the disturbed image ingrained by the pasty white hands, shinning dining and covering vines with lines of the signs that singe the engines of rhyme’s with time only to be awoken with the cords around neck choking, an arrow un-notching the rope and blending times with quotes, lines with hopes, narrow marrow, flow with rose, dangers leaning over these walls talking quietly to these females and their fires is like the pain that left the planes in need so dire. My heart may belong to another, but let us spend these hours underneath the covers counting the raindrops as they drop in a variety of patterns, severed by severity and stolen with the hands that produce magic with mage like ferocity and If I could kill the fates that drive you through my maze, I would walk with you to your grave, but instead the world is paved and I lay near the abyss of insanity.





…To Build a Boat With Dollars and Others…


Taken from the limbs of lost deified members of cardboard castles, formed into a semblance of gravity, are the rascals that tackle the emblems of humanity, burned to the ground is the silence that brings forth the fragments of her violin. A little metal a little beveled and the leaves fall like lava as the world is dying. I place bets on comets and librarians. Planning the wood and chiseling in instructions which hibernated and rose like the comatose coast. The sands we build upon are quick and the seasons bleed like a bottle stuck under the throttle of some taunting calamity, historically corrected to not look as if we allowed them to enter. The lands that shift to the haunting touch of her crayons, accented and dancing like the motivations of junkies, to find the last boards a home on this ingrained insanity. Memories of fallen angles, caught and added to the removed theory that adds ghasts and ghouls to the rotating room filled with anti-rules and he drags home another board. His work shop was built far away from the ancient graveyard, but the ghosts find their idol time is better spent around some sainted member of self totting morals, so instead lend hands and vocals to this quest that is not that hard. The boards acquired, the workers hired all that is left are the tasks in-between to enter this stream and build what was lost into a fond funneled memory. The water shifts around these identical ideologies and grasps hold of these quests that fill in the weeping hours between now and when the haunted hatred will rise again. The designated individual who finds laughter when glasses shatter, lays next to the heart that is fickle, placing his well bled hands around the neck of the first workers miracle, squeezes and then lets fall dead at his feet some idea that was held by many like stars that twinkle. But he found a flaw, when he reached up and realized that he could not live without placing his illogical replicated views in front of a heartless audience separated from the ability to do more then watch. The ghost of the ghost hovers up a little more smiles and thanks him graciously for allowing him a break from the work they are partaking in and fly’s away, back to his grave and rests a little knowing that these wrinkles in time will stay page less and blind, hoping that his curse will settle in the pools of blood carted by another first. The work must go on though, so these bled features fall into the heartless tunnels of time tangled around the previous participations, idly shoveling fragments of thoughts at winter’s creation, howling with lost abilities and severing the time that it takes to burden the taunting ground of ghostial features, adding the mysteries of creation to the children’s castles. Dead and dying are the days as the clouds form over these boat building creations, followed with bottles and poisoning days is the plague, the blight, the mangled masters of misguided ingenuity formed upon the bled images of maimed theories killed and children disregarded held within the wilting days and the storm builds. Buried is the care for another rising through the planks of the boats, built in and borrowed are the plans to build this ark, built upon the bartered for features of many females found carded and cared for, listened too and bleeding ugly, finding a place in this masters work shop and the door opens to let them in. This boat is only big enough for a few of you, found plastering lines like the thrones that hold the wolves within and left alongside right ideas, with broken wings and mangled prayers caught by your angles, murdered and again disregarded, spirits hear us and wing away thrown into chemical based mysteries hovering over the repeated caress of Wiccan fires, jealousy builds into envy and her heart is big enough to fly throw his and leave him beating the flames that flagrantly fall into the frozen tundra of Gwenviere like proportions. Extortions and extensions and eventually we all fall into apathy only to rise with the tides of change exchanging the mingled extortions of past ventriloquists wishing for Draco to find his fated life band in order to fly again. Lifting your extensions and placing them near the humbled future features not already bled into the buried repertoire of plank walking incarnations, found in the flower bed buried as isocracies hollowed fragments. Alone again are the weary words of watch out, as aboard the boat are barrels of alcohol and lethargy forgetting to remind you of several identities found in foreign extremities surfing next to your theories, found laughing and haunting the narcolepsy of these lethargic entities, dead next to the entropy that lands aboard the boat. The waves have risen and the sea finds so much blood that it will part for no other then you, because I find twilight appealing and spirits and if your wish where the tides desire then we would all be burning in eternal fires. Hired and hovering lifted and emancipated, fated and hardly beating the tides shift and carry your past that was earned by others when initiated, truth will flee from your vision like replenished versions of superstations and darkness finds it home with your disregarded poems, similar to now and different how? Aboard the boat mingled with the skurvial displacement is your memory of mesmerized tantric ideologies. The storm settles down and boat finds shore covered and hidden is the pain that prints itself across your golden dormitories, Using laughter and misguided perceptions to cover these ancient theories. But so it goes, as we build again the days where the plains will rise again, and knives lay at the feet of these forests, hoping for the change to your morals, knowing that you will find a way to say it was your intentions and you got your way.