Do trips rip guts out or restate romance as theorized in the 70’s of the 16th century. Wreck this wrack. Flaps and flaps—here’s plastic not bird flying.
Oil on canvas; yes we’re talking crude. Fact— fiction—a fight over jurisdiction. Hyaline visages verify. Glossies blown by breezes smell fishy. Is this a case of fish-fume-laden breezes or breezes sensing amiss?
Now a lineated culling--with no words reordered or changed, but with dashes added:
Cannot always be
You and back
To we—it’s true—you
Have no reason to trust
Me—grasses catch fire—someone
Drops several pounds of salt.
And here's a chunk (in-progress?) prior to culling:
Herself defined as hirsute. History is a prickle becoming pickle. Peculiar syntaxes converge at a square resembling Venice after a massive fire and seen through venetian blinds. I tried to address the perplexities as performed by propinquities. This didn’t work the way I envisaged. Verily I make very a green space. She’s become the worst of maleness; is this purposeful or an accident she’s spent her life striving for. Transsexual patriarch puts a tough spin on the possibility of performance. Switches and switches. Whistle as slender wood whoops sensitive ass-cells. Asperity in the midst of newly sprouted asparagus piques my most favorite circuit that from eye to gut to eye. Eyeing gut I keeled over. Gluttony allowed me to regain balance. Sexy sheathed in lace the mirror image of caul. Girls call call-girls; they’re unsure whether they’re pranking or professing admiration or if the two are twined so tightly one and one is one.