Bucolics loving

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Facing Horzog was debacles.
Three minimum.
Tower appetizer won’t satisfy a Tyson.
Thursday exhaling some soft something
I know not of.
Hear the white.
Lay away, persuasive.
Blooding a genet. 1971.
Binding maddened public in notebooks of mine.
On the ground poniard. The hell with this word, poniard.
Freedom! Said the Hungarian.
Rarer Mary around here on my still touchable body.
They ask for a guitar. Squiers for strangers, I would say.
They would squirm, if so.
Conclusion: no problem at all.
Give them that and they will be perfectly fine.
That’s a real fair fine.
In my memories I hold everything.
The world we live is made of memories.
Father awakens.
Australian geisha.
A Camry forces its way into the boundaries
That, in a second, dry.
Whack them all, or try.
What would Diogenes say?
The doorway tells tales in private.
And Tchekhov?
Last cleats of mine that you wear.
Tilford that, baby.
Bucolics loving.
Before Gerber.
Maybe if you have some peppermint talent,
All of a sudden.
Pitiable Sanders. Didn’t leave me nothing.
Simplest “the”.
Semites don’t panic
These are the times, these are the times.
Bravery cities all over the twisted map.
One third. About.
She´s the one.
I’d kindle fires only by touching her.
And then lock myself in a room. No latch.
The feast. All my representatives.


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