| flying pickets |
[Sep. 9th, 2014|02:42 pm] |
1 Were my doors without hinges Baxe and keep the land
Became my heels as pulleys and anchor them in the bucket you
You change every so often uniform, changing odor, changing chassis
And our hope is buried like Dora, straight to the crib.
…
7 We performed bullets dom-dom, dom-dom bullets, bullets dom-dom
And we sell out at a flea market, taratatatzoum for a suit. .
Niko |
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