The Adventures of Abpoe: Vol. Two

By Patrick Ovington

The Adventures of ABPoe: Vol Two is a collection of further insight and memoirs found and formed between the years of 2001 and 2014. It contains further statements on life, death, the self, truth, society, and personal opinion.

Again broken into four parts, each was written separately but, together, provides a journey through introspection, individuality, and inherent information. Collected letters and journals have provided most of the details, and the outcome is a vast and fiery assortment of memories and perspective. Inspired by the cut-up method as devised by Brion Gysin and William S. Burroughs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781514430958

Patrick Ovington

Patrick Ovington was born in 1977 on the west coast of Canada in a medium-sized town full of regular people. As a child, he was fairly average, but as adolescence occurred, anomalies began to persist. Artistic endeavors, the performing arts, and film became hobbies that remain active today. School became secondary as he felt somewhat dispelled from its intent. Education lost its necessity as simple reading and writing proved a greater learning curve. This brought about travel, early employment, and self-awareness at an early age. Currently residing in Vancouver, BC Canada, Patrick is an independent artist and writer.

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Copyright © 2017 by Patrick Ovington.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015919893

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-3097-2

      Softcover         978-1-5144-3096-5

      eBook         978-1-5144-3095-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 05/04/2017

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CONTENTS

Reaction Versus Instinct

The Bellows

Part One

Kitties Can’t Eat Sandwiches, But Your Dog Would Like A Slutty Chicken!

Prologue

Chapter One: The Senses Still Carry Their Virtues

Chapter Two: Hey! Where Are You Going?

Chapter Three: Tomorrow

Chapter Four: The Fucked Up Ego

Chapter Five: The Hazards And Hopes Of Outdoor Sex

Chapter Six: Embrace The Change

Chapter Seven: Bye Bye Highroad

Part Two

Wasted Youth

Introduction

Chapter One:

Chapter Two: And So It Begins!

Chapter Three

Chapter Four: The Overcame

Chapter Five: Now Then

Chapter Six: The Same Old

Chapter Seven: A New Page A New Story

Chapter Eight :An Old Page The Same Story

Chapter Nine: A Past Worth Remembering

Chapter Ten A Recollection

Epilogue

Part Three

Who Knows Happy Birthday Wednesday Tulips?

Prologue

Chapter One: Journaling

Chapter Two: Detailing

Chapter Three: The Withered And The Weathered

Chapter Four:

Chapter Five: Grasping At Straws

Part Four

Wild Generic Tales Enhance The Master

Chapter One

Chapter Two: Fingers

Chapter Three: The Last One Was So Short Why Not Start Again

Chapter Four: Journals On Psychosis, Reality, And Addiction

Autobiography

Synopsis

This is dedicated to the loving memory of Michael

Charles Joseph and his losses,

AB Poe

Reaction versus Instinct

C an we imagine context without the self? Do we greet the life we have with heart or head? Perhaps our definition is enough, but it does not last unchallenged. The testimony of our souls is silent. The character of our evidence is erected from our nature. Pleasure. Secrets. Dominion conquering passion, and instinct deciding the reaction. The follies of attachment admire splendid sleep while the victims of its charm fall to deceive. The spinning trap of understanding and rationale benevolent in the boast of perception. Truth captured and split to persuade the decision. Nature bells ring, bellowing joy, neutralizing toll, and hauling soil.

The confusion settles easily as the numbers nestle simple meaning. Perception again entangles the foothold of a noble tomorrow. Passion burning underneath the lies and sin. Fornicating function drools the deep obsession, but what became of nature’s spawn? The growing mass, appropriating task, disguising fast the articulated cast of molded hands. The skin possessed by life does capture passion as it appreciates the softer touches of desperate, dire need. The mark of hidden truth upon the million faces attesting comment. Periods dwell in social management that a declaration of independence harbors all our labour. The trials of living tissue, shifting mass, and passionate stupor. Insincerity capitulates. The numbers do conspire. The mass corrodes with masturbation, not ejaculation, and the fumbled comprehension of definition. Interpretation delivers the answer, but does it find comfort within the night? The eyes seek vengeance as they know the truth. The hands they toil the soil of work. Passion dwindles with lost intent and bleeding hearts break first. The skin constructs a thicker span of delinquency. The mind to deliberate the calculations, the soul to wear the inclinations, and we prepare the inspiration. The worn out souls of isolation describe the inflammation with the inbred signs of collaboration. The lies scurry deep within the words. A language wrought with questions.

God?

Life?

Hope?

Now?

Meaning traps the imbecile with no sign of absolution to convey a trigger. The loose opinion of some slanted jigger. A dance to catch the sea, a step to course the sand, and a wave to brandish plea merrily round and round. The dancing figures closing down the operation with all this sound. Confusion catches sense despite the disparaged mound. Now it starts again aloud. The programmed sense of sound distorting meaning to find the cost of such a pound. The sequence revolves the astounding feel of temperamental zeal into all this mordant seal. Banter lost, meaning found, questions asked, and answers known.

The sirens signal action quickly as the lights flicker meekly to answer not the reasoned plea, but to call the answer forth. The answer comes to split decree with the spreading weakness of our glee. We seek forgiveness as our guilt does surmount the time. Our silken treasure dismounts our hope with blistered hands around a tattered rope. The once conscripted sighs of cataclysmic spasm devour the core of reason like a bowl of soup. The point resounds in the earth’s forbidden fruit. The heritage of passion that decides our further truth. The words they blur, but the heart repeats.

God.

Life.

Hope.

Now.

Silly, be.

It does not really matter of what I speak of, but I feel some dedication to pushing the point. Nothing is guaranteed, no one is ever true, and the future is dark not bright. These shadows have forsaken the light, and degenerate compromise detects an end of days. The display can only be contorted for so long, and balance will wipe skins with blood to drown us in a sea of unfathomable size. We shall suffer for the world has suffered, and our pain will know no boundary. Agony will set the margin as all our wickedness is uplifted and released. The penance will not be easy, nor will the abstinence thereafter, but still the torment will end.

We all know I am not worthy. Common and defiled I shall walk the shadows to find the truth even if I may not speak of it. There are many things to help along the way, but will I be strong enough to accept them? Death will probably take me first. I am sorry for those I have lost, and to those that I have forgotten. My unfortunate design tells me that I come first. This selfish, self-loathing and decay are in my cup, and I may drink, but I may softly sip to endure the end. Love is important, but do I really have any to give?

A brand, new day thriving and striving onward. Existence is delicate, deliberate, and delectable. The music rises in the sky, louder and louder, higher and higher, victory. Awareness states that the truth and faith are abstract, individual standards which can have no true definition, but as the population contains them both they are not lost in mystery. Instead truth and faith are tested, cornered and questioned, abated and worn, however never really gone. Just beaten and bloody.

Torture is self-inflicted. The choice corrodes the consequence even though the consequence still counts. Surmounting the mire forever to forget the previous day. Cries are futile, the tears are false, and the reason goes back to where it came from. We are all left with ourselves, and the decline is of our own design. Step after step, moment after moment; loss. It will not be long now, but unbearable crossings peril this journey. Miscalculated retort or misappropriated passion or mischievous chance? It has been too long already, and we are not finished yet. What can come next? The blackest bottom of a dung pile or the purest motion to rectify the past?

Open the future and you have everything. No repression can deny the potential without getting crushed. The smoke rises to purify the air, and the water crashes clean across the shore. The future rings like chimes caught in reverberation, like pigeons scavenging the patio, like cars honking at the pedestrian dead in the road. Life only calls once, remembers twice, and multiplies thrice fold when driven swiftly. The petals fall, but the flower rises again. Replicas of ourselves exist. We must find them, nurture their response, and collect the feasible reward. Friends and lovers to call our names, we simply should reply. The cool air is coming. Here comes the rain again. The calamity of humor and the respite of the world. One bus comes as another leaves, and people still protest the allotted number of transit. Progress is desire craving the body, nourishing the mind, and granting the response a greeting for another day. Blessed by the number for it only grows like a succulent poised at the sun as if some shimmering gem caught within insight. Desire causes the goal to catch up with reality. To swap the terms and pat the back of all these striving factions.

Tell me why we lose so much, have so little, and fidget away the balance. Tell me why we crave our life, but contaminate it with subterfuge. We choose, lose, and together may get away, but alone the truth can fit our prospects. Endless uncertainty and certain depravity will come this way, but should we subside? Perhaps it is all a test. Sorrow and regret caressing the depths of the heart because nothing is sacred amidst the distortion deterring the facts to condemn any growth. The stagnant passage never appealed, but then again we do not choose the life we live. It is given to us, and taken from us, and in the interim we all fall down. Purity divides the saved, and the lost stay lost. If this is true then life is not.

Catastrophe may define it or a slight mistake will blow up the world, but in any case death will call, and either all together or one by one we will extinguish life. We will destroy our bliss with ignorance. We will tempt our fate with abomination. Harsh acceptance will file our greed with the duty of preservation bewildered and distracted. We will find condemnation openly without reserve, and we will perish beneath its wings. Crushed by the air and swallowed by the sea, forever falling down the catastrophe that may define us. The softened guise of fateful ruin can dissemble the rhetoric, forget the taught degrees, and remember the position held within a footstep. Gathered beyond a hand’s grasp and caught between the merit and the badge, the indescribable youth gather together to be born asunder. The force of nature strokes the bosom of chance. Change bears its head to be counted too, but we all die alone crying for help, collected by the remembrance that never was, but that the afflicted mass has collaborated to obstruct sense and explore the possibilities. The smell of gasoline and the articulation of a self-help tape. For many sight winds the ascent while scent and sounds come seconds later, and the wrong, laid foul rotting slowly, decays unseen. The wheezing fortitude of refrigeration loses its appeal as the words paint a picture that cannot be seen. Readers may try to aspire greatness, but if the words disagree what is one left with? The basking sense of dew erupting with the wake of a day? The corrupt vision of darkness pulling back to let the day forget the previous day. Cries are futile, the tears are false, and the reason goes back to where it came from. We are all left with ourselves, and the decline is of our own design. Step after step, moment after moment; loss. It will not be long, but unbearable crossings peril this journey. Miscalculated retort or misappropriated passion or mischievous chance? It has been too long already, but we are not finished yet. What can come next? The blackest bottom of the dung pile or the purest motion to rectify the past? Perhaps it is all a test? We may succumb to greatness and battle the past until it is gone, and if it means that we are dead then perhaps we have won. What is the prize? Practise will dictate the plot, and hopefully without the spelling mistakes.

The Bellows

H ow long can we retort to nothing? How long can the entertainment be enjoyed? Reason does not have to point a finger to find the culprit. It does not have to understand the why of it. Only the result is necessary commendation in order to amend the body’s beliefs in madness. Restless thoughts flash accounts of caution to steady the pace. Balance was lost sometime so the instincts of safety have dwindled. Words of advice are not received, affection is dismissed, and courage does not uphold these fortunate steps. The path still unfolds, and continuation is evident. There are so many things to say, and to pick one over the other seems impossible. The nostrils are plugged, the coffee is cold, and the smoke sticks to the air with invisible fingers. The afternoon is happening in a mute brightness as the light is hardly enough. The figments twitch inwrought in inexact infection, and together we may get away, but alone the truth distorts our prospects. Endless uncertainty and certain depravity come this way, but should we subside healing all the same?

Subjects held together by the words of a disjointed journey and calmly they explain the variations of something. Breath loses the pain and loss of living flesh. Something beyond the waking to do of routine. Memories abstracting the future will do well, but cannot see beyond the bad. Let us all say goodbye. The fluctuating gas in a stomach rises in a belch of relief.

The truth garbles the truth from one person to the next. People corrupt themselves and inveigle judgment. Cruelty and tolerance walk close together as their resources also mingle together. Vicious fashion and adjacent choice complete the task. The rightful will that looks, acts, and scores the final goal. The aim and deliverance of shadows forsaking the light, and the degenerate compromise detects an end of days. Our display can be controlled for only so long as balance will wipe our skins with blood, and drown us in a sea of unfathomable size. We shall suffer for the world has suffered, and our pain will know many boundaries. Agony will set the margin as all wickedness is uplifted and released. Penance will not be easy nor will the abstinence thereafter. Still the torment is a miracle as life seems fit to give breath to this chaotic scribe of flapping keys. We have missed the momentum of the rackety clack.

The machine needs some tuning, perhaps a wipe or two, and a feather duster would be ideal. Fine tuning the memory to fit the machine. To make the machine one’s own exercise and use will make it valuable. A thesaurus on hand might mask the new direction with confusion and ignorance to fill the page, but will it find another? The heart decides the outcome, the mind fixes the terms, and the body shall carry the burden. Words create much beyond their meaning, and finite terms will not do. Besides the fluctuation of time and self arrange the point. The fuelled sensation of throttling fast and carrying on straight creates a wired world of souls directing repetition. The sway carries adapting, growing breath to the principles we represent. Time contorts any description, but the inadequate on top of the inapt displays a dialogue devoted to detaching desultory comment. Perspective views only apply.

Stupor deteriorates the prediction of discourse in a disarray of inarticulate banter. The call of the wild disrupted by instinctive gossip. Tied to the truth and bound by the bounty to uplift this mortal coil of time, and reaction is free to be. Forceful and diligent in proposals of dignity and respect. A loyalty in life only free spirits may have to pass, and to share their use give the world more back than take away.

An elaborate staircase padded with cushions. No one gets hurt in an eternal decline based on choice and intent. Only the kind of perception that gratifies and deceives. The kind of persona that falls from spirit to drift with the wind. There are those beyond this mishap. The artists of life that craft the freedom they are given into the life they become. Estranged, but victorious patients. Karma bites like a dog without reproach and directly at the fleshy parts. The wounds heal, but the lesson goes along to bleed again. What wisdom can foresee the old wounds surface in the future? Which direction can squander the suffering and apathy? Can a moment truly clear the air to leave the room fresh and comfortable? Round and round, tumultuously falling, continually faulting the passage with unnecessary clutter. Broken backs bend back, swollen eyes still see, and the mind may confuse the matter, but the matter cannot confuse the mind. The living ribbon is trapped, free, and alright.

What?

Repetition will broadcast mistakes and mismanage growth, but perhaps this prologue is enough of an entrance to begin in this world we create. The pronouns weaken scheme, life provides guidance, and words amidst the ruins aid comfort. The unending suffering with the spelling mistakes seems to uphold the cat’s attention as thoughts strain to ascertain the working machine. Further interpretation presents further consequence. The rally of terms seems incomplete and irrational, but it seems the world is full of cracks and holes. Distinct being contains the purest intent, but will not be found to perish in silence. Beauty will continue to captivate our hearts, wisdom will deliver thought’s poetry, and amazement keeps us young. Once the blossom is gone it most fall down.

For now I am typing this,

I fear this portion of communication may let down some of those that receive it. It is a form letter to be included in initial communication so that my intentions are clear and my reasoning declared. Words are my life and to distinguish terms clearly I must be up front with myself and with others. It is important to me that this is more than rhetoric. So then my intentions are simple, to build a conceptual work based on communication. The intercourse of friends is valuable and the availability of love is so small. We deserve each other, and through this we shall prove it. We will not forget, although we may try, and perish in the mistakes. I still say there are no mistakes as the sun for the moment peaks through the window, and I am reminded of the beauty and truth that do uplift our spirits. We are guilty by association, but communication is one of a kind. No matter how many copies, or how many people, the words still dictate the change.

An honest typo with no hidden intent. Warmth and growth. The challenge of the future in the face of the past. Somewhere we found it, let it develop, and now it is this. The history of a time that we both set free. A space where we both cured our bodies in the figment of decay. The Goldberg Variations. Artistry in the making.

Now the terms are simple. You can choose not to communicate or do so from any standing you wish. Names will be omitted not changed, and the words will speak for themselves. Truth, compassion, and beauty. I may never give up.

ABPoe

Art: ideals and perceptions of consequence and aesthetics. The proposition one makes with what one does or senses. Projects surrounding form and figments of the self in thoughts or actions of the recognized process of standards.

Duty: an isolated, but universal figment of the individual. In pure, simple terms it stems from the world rather than the self within it. The focus on truth in concept and action within every day practises. The being self in daily life.

Music: the manipulation of sound and the distortion of sense. Segments of designated feeling programmed into a display of abstract themes and politics.

Words: man’s creation. To be able to write, one must think. The conveyed thoughts as derived and devised by the thinker. Understanding enriches sense with definition based subjects. To be able to read, one must think.

Procrastination kills the best of us. Time splinters decision to recite poetry, and the time eludes factual purpose, at least for me. I hope your well, we have communicated, but not enough output has left my table. Who cares? Who replies? Should I care?

Experience is universal, although altogether different. We must possess the conquering aspect to any situation right? Information and attachment enhance. Things get in the way, but we put them there. Still I feel like letting go, I just do not know what. Not you or others, but parts of myself. Too much concern has not accomplished very much, and too little seems to be unnoticed by everyone beside me. Practicality should incite what we can or cannot do because as we know choices are many. Experience tells me this should matter, we all should be important beyond our connections, and the pragmatic methods absorb the truth. Perhaps questions of loyalty and chivalry are dead, but not for me. Why abscond the right and just path when conflicted? Why determine one path greater than another? Simple death will collect us all, and I would like trust, truth, and truce to get me there.

An excerpt from personal mail. To the original receiver, it was yours first!

You seem to of found my cat. Thank you for she is old and needs a lot of attention. You seem to be out, and I have to go out, but if you could contact the building manager, and she will contact me and or take Princess, my cat off your hands. You can also contact me at…

I thank you again, and hope to get her out of your hair soon. Hope she wasn’t too much trouble. I still can’t figure out how she got out?

Streams of tearful repetition from the gods and goddesses earthbound. Love lost and memory faulty. The perdition of living tissue tangled and blurred with the renditions applauding the senses. The swollen, masterful strokes captivated within the miracle of every day.

Messages are deliberate, actions ample in the theory of cause and effect, and the decisive maneuvering of obligatory spacemen. Missing the horizon opposite the abyss, and in hopes of writing letters, the floating masses cascade the nothing with fingers crossed. The words never come, but the wish is prevalent amidst the black bulk. A single tribute to time and testimony. Grave worship paying homage to the opportunity, but what can one do with it? Too much. The margins are warbling as time runs asunder. The hands have become shakier, the testimony shaggier, and the resource of decay still overwhelms. Apparently it is not over, the floor holds the feet, the air supports the lungs, and the riots merely stir silently in fearful nightmares. Paranoia, but where is the shock therapy? The ages have almost condemned progress by applying means. Evidence rambling of truth is suppressed by the actions themselves. The devil. God. The self. Sinners and saints spreading signatures and signposts slightly slander service.

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Reach without reaching, smile when frowning, do more productive activities, physical shape is an asset, and the diet needs work. The preservatives will kill you so kiss the world goodbye with stammered resilience the world does forgive. We wear out our boots with emphasis. Death and ink slaughter now, sparking figures now begin, become, and be. Drop right now not too far too soon as nothing carries more than a broken window.

Hurray!

Wet hair, lost time, and promises now disagree. The ink runs dry slain by reinforced mock turtles on the page remembering camping adventures. There are no imprints to turn it around, but how many occurrences speak forgiving fables of admiration. Coffee on the table does not convey stupefaction when sensations occupy commanding preparation. Ill-fated ways from the enumerated past of the reinvented now prescribe description bare on routine.

Good morning and good evening happy tomorrow!

One word lost and another one written as tomorrow closes tight wanting more, but asking for less. Be now, more, right, swallow. The collision collects the dance, be more, and be now. More now!

The threesome is built from the truth I think?

Be good, be now, and try not to give in anymore because playing life outward expects less. Lay in the turmoil of the aftermath. The apprehended unknown aspect of apprehensive appointments blister with sinister incisions of humor.

Memories are made of this.

Smiling, something in your eyes masters maturity dancing, and glancing forward with sultry knowledge smiles too. The prospective buyer has to acknowledge the price of holy white. Do not overflow, but let the being lift your soul.

I am not predictable.

Breaking the rules, living life, and it all seems white. Persistent the self stays afloat, but still loses no complaints. Dripping persecution be now. Toss aside the memories, and be now. No one is here, and yet this is here. Temptation foils a career with a facsimile for death, but we disagree. Preparation declares room and board for deception.

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Perfection

Pose a question; where is the perfection? Perhaps the answer is in the people or maybe even the place itself. It could be in the overall attitude or just in a singular act. One thing remains, the fact that pin pointing perfection is a feat of hypothesis.

Cloistered with demons this life has been torment. Pain, loss, removal, and trivial sensations of understanding and worth. Indignant behavior corrupting the soul, but choices and trial amidst chaos. Black, watered down aspirations peril in the light of day. Free spirits up into heaven to bless peace and love unto those missing it now. Beckoning strength and stamina to fortify the bonds of responsibility. Faults prevail, but victory emerges from within the challenges we overcome. The identity to wonder and worship, practice and preach, prepare and farewell.

Abrupt captions of time draining away, but the sediment clogs the memory. Regrets whining in the shadows, joys laughing outside, partners walking in the daylight as lovers deplete solitude. There is familiar territory, broken expectations stay quiet as superfluous reasons point back nonchalantly pricking indifferent smiles like a killer surviving the kill. Intermittent communications with habit surely determine reason, but backsliding, letting go, losing point, and even loving death seem juvenile and inexperienced. Conceptions colour the meaning of everything, and from person to person the shade often varies. The ultimate truth is unattainable without discipline. Finally the ether resolves the answers in argument.

Uncertainty divides the whole from side to side with positions pigeon holed into abundance and scrutiny until terms define the infinite. Humanity’s hunger for understanding degrades the wonder of simple magic. The parade of time we call our lives unravels until we are forgotten, and by then we were never truly there. Life is tangible if we try.

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Listen to the still

Calm amidst the quakes

Time slips by

And opportunities pass

The comfort keeps us sane

The costs no one can afford

Weakness in the heart

Fear within the mind

The unknown.

The sounds collect in the memory alongside any visual aids. Compiled and stored like a hodgepodge of files unfathomable behind closed doors. Evidence self-evident to the point of bias. The habits occur with frequent stops, and any routine is running on fumes. Progress displays itself in the stature of life before us now. It does not define us or limit us to its end, but allows translation, an observant friend to lead the way. Almost by accident terms enact deeds, programs of worth redeem merit, and spontaneously the self dissolves with decision.

Waste and want predict the outcome as tones fan out slurring trails of obscurity. The memory upholds the back catalogue with complete disarray, but usage empowers discerning qualities. The tracks of time are laid bare again, and the senses have learned to remember. They manipulate the mental workings and bodily functions we all operate into pivotal parts of oblivion. Singular, tactile distinctions ingrained in every soul. A broken bone, beaten face, or bruised ego deliver specific destinations. Trivial details pointing direction, nonetheless, the figures feel the cold beneath the blanket’s warmth.

This is mine alone, forever,

The murmurs collect to have a dialogue. They disagree, but come to an encouraged discovery. They all feel the same! Gentle and kind providing a future prone to simple blessing. Air and water, warmth and joy. Smiling strangers and open hearts. Patient love, universal security, and uncompromising understanding.

Bells.

Rain.

Birds.

Echoes. Ideals. Projections or hallucinations this corrupt body may have already undergone.

Repent.

The whispers insist the skin is not pure, and that touch is tainted by the close proximity that it can feel. Nerves flinch without consciousness. The pastime of reason to fully comprehend the vexed position of disdain proves disastrous. Conclusions draw near, bear strength and conviction with justice and compassion, and the sacrifice may remain only the turkey. Cooking slowly, stewing in bubbling broth the sounds overflow from the deep servings of reality. The truth and myself. This self. Now.

Right or wrong the world remains indifferent. How much crime can one commit against oneself? Death is fear confined to very large quarters after all energy is consistent. Random repose to stimuli scientifically man made and simplicity deems its rewards. The constraints fade away and restriction remains self-imposed. The moral whole remains inward, and that definition is not mandatory. Understanding has determined the usage with awareness and flexibility. Courage and faith never stray very far. Pleasure seeks opportunity

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Wow!

Paint the town black, and the rain pours down. The clouds overcome the calm skies with wet, hampering reminders of assimilation and entrails. Shopping outsiders rarely see the darkened masses lingering upwards, outward, all over. Figments reaching cataclysmic evidence to hang the so-called jury. They have been out too long, and the coughs from clearing throats is getting worse. Cloistered health will not survive if smothered openly, but calm respite welcomes open hands. Reaching the fair degrees of perpetual cause and effect will after all inflict such stern returns.

Focus.

Clear and present danger confronts these passages with clicking heels and an arcade of delight. Yawning, sprawling patiently waiting while itchy feet may strive for home. The flies are swooping in on sizzling enterprises, but the meal has not begun. The encroaching, tiny flies wriggle as the traffic restlessly nestles to support further seating.

Fancy fiction and debutant prose. Praise for the tranquil repose resting here! Darkened corners and cushy chairs, beer stained air, and musty tastes. Relief’s trajectory revolving twice misspelled. Articulation with dirty hands as the poles express stature, but even dirty hands uphold poise. Wonder the walk and explore. Play the truth for what it is worth, and the plugged in apparatus will leave you surely surprised. The self, others, caustic penmanship, and the biting nerves.

Wow! Things are awesome!

There by three, but two are gone.

I gave the gods away, but the music displayed more audacity. Formal attire aside the words do mount oblivion with the descriptive now. Blinded obsession, greed, obscured aesthetics, and sounds approving light ignition. Postulate freedom winded, grinding bindings to the tainted objectives. The self-imposed for the treatment of progress. The plague of progress resembles loss and desperation. The melancholy directions of the misanthrope deities born to die. A quarter in the cart and oops peripheral despair. Too many echoes pave the sidewalk, and fragrant kisses from shared existence line the tonal temperament to totality. The disturbances are local. Displays of degree to be technical advantage. A turned E? A turned Q? Passive steps to rehabilitate the obliterated. Where is the tape recorder when life is in order?

Bless the beautiful children with bicycles and sagging pants. Impoverished seclusion or lack of decision designs less tolerant pity. A stock built from gauges of stained fingers and delusion. The penny whistle blows a different tune.

Toot, toot, toot-toot.

Old hands and dry fingers as odd sounds implore reaction. The sound in one hand is removed from the rest thus forward ho!

The birds are outside singing although conceived as another sound effect, they do play and meander amidst the wake of day. The end of today, and the beginning of tomorrow. One turning page in a forever changing format of technological embrace. The held captive prisoner of time and the self, the usage. The underlined determination of all unto one to form the whole catapult of ideas and actions into squash. The philandering age of tripping daily to advent the cause and habit of effect. The tranquil moments of lost abandon that accent life’s tragedies with smiles of hopeful slumber. The irreversible decline of this impurity for greater schemes of wealth’s descent. The bare bummed signal that life survives if we do not.

The circles click their time amongst the noticed curves of passage. They poodle up their hairdos and tighten up their trousers for the title of biggest prize. They hurdle close together as the temperature does incline, and so the orgy pants in waiting of one arm to another. The glimpsing flesh to touch another so swiftly does agree. The passion flares and sex collides with cosmic interference. The sensual cavalcade of twisting bodies mingling desired feats as far as the eye can see.

Open mouths saying, Aahhh.

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Landscape (III)

For luxury on the street, white emitted nothing substantial as the moon sets, debris standing. Generational, iconoclastic flight as meaning, before, quit. Told to do that passes the dream. Notions can never place happiness and laughable quotients of life forward. What can convey the dregs and mistakes is plural, memorable difference, deceit, filth, and fog. Resistance from the circumstance, and caught calling it denial, the attention remembers. What is what? The crank contains the developed flames, but floral fiction of something. All be trusted because of life. An animal is trapped, and the above too is shivering. Hands running, rolling on despairs for written self be truly created, and compromise does materialize every understanding envisioned. The legs allow their try, and fainting individuals that unnecessary concentrate is small surpassing today. Ruthless, the men ignore fortune and life, but perhaps progress perforates growth. Enjoyment, emotion, viable cheeks are honest, and the repressed indescribable as intended desires condone and the like. Unbelievable. Sinister with espionage, but why fight back? The logic, the words display the farewell.

Landscapes more, once more, but becoming these people with spoken word? Interpretation must be warm to break the bending of noise. Does every this for wishful youth is sickness, and tomorrow discombobulated, unusual of victory with a frail future spans the world. Words, the usage has reason, just be loose, and predict experience adults to input query. To lie is the self. The character is to cross this clarity, struggle and twitch, and betray personality in the hours that cannot make the answers from the hand. Prohibition and under suspicion looks of curiosity