Thursday, July 15, 2010

we fly.

crimson geodes of pale inner matter, crushed sinner, latter day saints, the tide of paints enter drawings of estimated counting, crawling and drawling a southern accented direction, wayward northern lights, you smoke them, i smoke them, an autumnal breeze of marijuana, a dry spell we can taste, arid summer, humid days, afternoons and mornings led by naps on carpets, the beached blunt bitch, the sour sass, things go slowly here, we are whole.

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