On The Horizon a Silhouette of the Buddha Slits Its Own Throat... |
.. .. .. .. ..And parting is such a sweet sorrowful bore.Dumping the syringe in a playground.Reunification of the cell with the core.Simple reasons spoke in word and sound.Is parting such sweet sorrow...
Posted by on Tue, 12 Oct 2010 02:00:00 GMT |
http://ursuswords.blogspot.com/ |
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Posted by on Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:53:00 GMT |
Love Hurts |
Sat with infinity written on sleeves....
Listening to the rain....
Or some song of pain....
We serve penance through division....
And waste time smashing stones....
What can you find in...
Posted by on Tue, 04 May 2010 05:47:00 GMT |
Driven from sleep to the sound of a gun... |
....................
A walking
joke.....
Im
practically a tramp.....
Never
saving the best words for last.....
I can wait
to love in heaven.....
When times
gone to the wooden ...
Posted by on Sat, 17 Apr 2010 13:57:00 GMT |
Le Maison De Hulton... |
....................
The
curtains are twitching....
Without
rearranging themselves....
And this
conservation is over....
Because its
not one-sided in my favour....
You can
onl...
Posted by on Sun, 11 Apr 2010 15:40:00 GMT |
The resist as baton... |
There are so many women .With the last song tattooed on their back.With some teams name sagging on their brain.With their forever written around your Friday.Their heart in your hands.Tread careful you...
Posted by on Mon, 05 Apr 2010 01:34:00 GMT |
As surface expires... |
....................
So someone
removed the controls.....
Replaced
them with bells and whistled.....
Chimp-mindedly
not noting the difference.....
Ham
handedly handling the flowers...
Posted by on Sat, 03 Apr 2010 15:20:00 GMT |
In all my Dreams... |
....................
In all my
dreams youre hurting me.....
But in all
my moods Im drunk.....
Like all
response is tertiary. ....
A pound of
flesh aint just a chunk.....
.. ....
Posted by on Sat, 03 Apr 2010 14:26:00 GMT |
The literary thug... |
....................
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Posted by on Sun, 28 Mar 2010 16:41:00 GMT |
Zombiefictionation... |
We are the dead.Bone caged topping towers.Everything through the looking glass darkly.Pursed lips and heels cracking.Sharp intakes of breath as supplication.The dead are steps and the wounded trampled...
Posted by on Sun, 28 Mar 2010 15:21:00 GMT |
