Saturday, August 12, 2006

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prodouct:
made in the JEANS: valve Mitralika
category: missing skin

(Return at night. I swear that they are sober + spell behind the back)

jeans on the ground embroider yields breathed the latest voice and smells of oils
(industries umose crush olives), look at me.
leave to escape the blood flows back and thighs disheveled (also distracting eyes)
death of gravity on small breasts
increasingly shaky, the slightest whiff of light. I understand that I will write
existence. Of brevity. But it is clear that I do not understand:
repetition of the bed and her breasts popping has nothing to do. nothing to do with blood legs has nothing to do, with myself in the eye segment, is not involved. Then I
halyard, and rustles anything. It was only after my eyes back on the ground between the Courier
English and socks:
my jeans are a dead man abandoned dissolved, a balloon dried (apparent). Yet, what peace
lascivious
tell me how much skin missing on pulp. open. now I understand. What should I write.
(Valve Mitralika)

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