the only one that math calls

yuletide: pure/long visions of strange bitter angels sucking cocks to mogwai in basements, dark beauty ravages so...slowly

so someone tells you market values and makes match-maker myths of hardcore lifestyles, watches without windows, video-tropic pleasure boys and girls (come-a com-a gone) and wrap watch (making a few good friends) i hear a story in the making the marking of mysteries a partial knot untied a story one thing about me a hidden gesture and some'll try to unwind it some'll try to uncrink it and look (not standning back) how fine the winks and sighs are one young girl one young boy a mogwai song and heaven falls...

it's like leaving magic in the dark leaving anything at all unseen unknwon you only get half the job one side one image and here---just like dying out shadows in lowlanbd desert winds---it floats away leaving traces of itself behind for one soft night (for the clobbering of you or me) nonsense seems one way or the other (i'm just upside down) knocking out careful walls running fingers down the spine of a memory and you can only see the trail left.

it's all you need to keep going...all i need to get going...

2004-09-06 | 8:40 p.m.
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