of feral hair

had it with what—or

the couched girl worked with a story—language angels—wet dashed door never a nobody in terms of feral hair—capitalist lizards—upward themselves let illustrations labor logical—their have is where there’s secret poorhouse—down unwholesome work—shoes in flames—free the working rich beholden to pious subversion—they grow less motivated eyes humble view make strange freedom—they dream this—amoral art naked in clothes—a shoemaker has stopped to dance godly and poor as if reasoned mobility were knowing to earn—that hell being only a suggestion would make beings with such little sense—and they wildly they—the and of from and from of known—or

“You know I love this country. Only thing wrong with it is the folks living there.”

— William S. Burroughs / “Twilight’s Last Gleamings”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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