boxed outsides

just greatness… so surreal and tasty like eyes on my eyelids from the inside. going to start with taking risks with my off worldly free associations of poetry stylings .. like heinz ketchup and my deer coming out of the top of my body as it eats the fog of frogs for time is sideways and not along the linear way of changes in my plastic bag,.. I am sick man am I feeling the tasty sounds in the thoughts from my hurting foot spine critter sunday lies in regular hiding boxes. RED boxes filled with noisy soft suicides of living without love, I don’t care for who?

Poop on the walls, poop on the windows to hide from the outside of my body fluids that fall from the sky on my phony stony pony meat of hot blocks of simply plastic controlling the moon going down in my healing woolly blanket of pretty fleas .. this is so left right on the stereo,..

Can I brush my teeth one last time?? Before I sleep.. I know that is what I’m talking about. I am talking about how much I love life and my women – yeah