The old people say that stale beer is the best moss fertilizer. This remnant, this piece of a lost total system of knowledge, is our best consolation in this world. Similarly, this poem, which was discovered through a process of digital randomization(throwing darts at a computer) on top of a mountain(blindfolded on a heap of clothes) is a picture of a near-by world that makes sense but not to us. And why not? And who are you? Such attempts to become lost are now the only mynifesto's yet to be written. Also it has to do with clothes! And I hate to tell you this but those pants are not flattering.


You amount fear me.

A worm, some trashy dark time.

Spends time to toke on time

deep suck

a red

dark trash can.

That’s how fucked up my man can be.

Used to be talented.

Caught up some sort of strange loop.

No plan or concept

so wonderful yet deep

can be accessed unless he gets fucked up.

We salute that man

reveals a secret moon.

That’s what Timey told me at school.

When we get down we just feel.

We don’t know.

Maybe we shouldn’t get fucked up.

Timey told me wet was a death,

Faucet we let run.

You thought about wet.

That time process.

Only way forward through? Yes

that’s assumed.

Time, burden of an angel.

We’ve become

European Son.

Steed through

heavens of dust.

Story a wolf about where does that come from?

Formerly sleep.

We fuck

to clear you.

Background of a large turtle.

Three legged dog three legged man.

Ohh baby

we thought beefheart could save me.

We thought C.A. could save me.

Cat Power could have saved me

though we have to go all-time way down.

Root of wet.

Don’t want to be cornered.

Not even heaven. Beyond

that sphere now. We’re around a boy.

Time a flute as he to time.

Sage brush yet walks daddy.

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