these their continue:

the I verses dont work as well. in my view. "you" get caught with the ideas. the flow gets rounded up, almost like a bunch of wild animals who cant do their job.

who do these call swain and fox?( does this work?)___the parts _ well maybe they work better read aloud that way the flow of language is not caught up in its self reflection and consciousness.  (" L’âme (...) est sur la route "
Gilles Deleuze et Claire Parnet, Dialogues, p.77)

-----------------------send back ___ factory

Who do these recall? with their swains and fox? Life's short and its pungent

fuse burns. Then crawls a baked dog to its bed. Body arms legs and the rest

hounded out pounded up cruel gruel for the end game.

What fictions travel troubles this air?   [The You You and the I, I, I.]

Your punishment's a real illusion pain that's cut the gate and hammered

a door (let philosophers eulogize) . Not a close call but call . Would do if it's not too good,

too bad so fiction yourself its air of abuse. Not the final sinking thing which

stinks of its alibi and pressed . The ignorant frozen ones scream . Their gully

a pisspot of hope the shits

the shits, yea, that's what 'they' are mongering for bullets,

guns and wheat, keep half the starving world ? famished

buy its pain capital the decoration of frescoe and the manageeable

stock the investments spinning round at high speed stocks

& you ask if this collective sandwhich's death?

what voice speaks that an enunciation's not a nun

dear great friend weird words holding back the

and Mr M walks over the precipice leaning on

her prepuce her prepaid firmphone ringing telex switches in the next universe

Come around my Mona heave t he high hollies brain your figures

in the gigabytes of sound the tearing along traffic at the high speed internet

the jacketed man the bum along the avenue the bored Saturday and the auditorium and the glum slacks and Mona's bearing her furtive lens with fruit

And in this way the camera won't be fruit

punkc[o]utured by lungs and longing place she's pushed its geosophical vein to its art cambering ginmills and rasping fellows with finer paters than Rumainian monks

Shes the wished for apocalypse the steam death rattle in the

If you dont believe this thievery sending some your way might costeffective announce the Pyrrhic lyric thumb wrong