so much water, so precious stone. i jump in the upload button and splash myself with lust.
it is not to be confused with the mountain on the shore where the stone sits as a Telemonik Monk and sips his own shoulders and knees. i sit on a bench by the boiling sea, i see myself clearly in my own image, and i know that knowledge of oneself is knitted it the pink of the sky.
i mountain you sky, i live your life for you, so that you can be mine. we levitate on top of each other and i think i know you, you know me by thinking red, and devil is a crab, boiling water for spirits.
so much to say about so little. so little to say about space in between. when to bodies collide in a rocked propelled infinitum of conjectures, we spill our blood, and our guts tells stories of two lives, lived in a bucket of water or spacious as they may seem, little is known about party on the fourt floor of the month of May.
i drink blood of siblings, a taste the bone on my teeth. i like traffic lights, they tell the whole storry. red is wine, green is eternal suffering and yellow is a cab that takes you to the home of crabs. i like sea creatures, they are mine completely. i know how to live among creatures of the sea, the ear and the anderwater earth.
lines on your face are lines on the rock. rock is always wavering, it likes ephemeral things like sand and rock'n'roll that never utters a sound, never says a word that is not behind the pages of Bible, the pages of Kw'n'ran, the biblical deity of prolonged ejaculation.
we all swim in the sperm of a wale of non-entities, we all drink the intestinal air of crawling creatures of Mars. and we like to feel eternal, because thus we see a line from the sky showing correlation between solid and liquid, gas-like creations of Mars-like Mothers and Fathers of The Sand of ever-marching pigmey, self-righteous, non-loving siluettes of Monstrous Beauty.
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