the second M

Sometimes I think I'm ten different people.
Hibernation for nine other souls.

Clapton said he found himself by a pond chasing goldfish plastic bottle torches and fires. Bon bon merry go round I've been here before looking out from a bowl sunked in trenches of mud

Puddles of purple rain as the guitar strings pitter pat into the red rain boots. Far from the sun, the moon is rarely listened to no one wants to be a werewolf those razor sharp teeth dig into your stomach butterflies. We just observe it's patterns but not its mind.

I want to rip the caterpillar before it could ever grow, time capsule, to never know the feeling of flying see the butterfly can only escape after it's been captivated so the point is...........

Trapped in an egg shell a coating
Bomb it
Take your airplanes and jets and eight balls into a tree you trapeze artist that makeup was painted on quite well red-nosed bully go away

Point in turn turning to bad journalism and criticism which is completely void of all emotion
teachers and A-Dull-Ts adore the monarch, hibernating to Mexico beneath Bernal's lips.
Bliss Bombers

Bomb this pond throw a stone with the hardness of breaking through that shell and rip apart my ripples,
break the monotone breakdown of thorough essence.
Ruin the pattern of pitter patter and tear the conventions to threads.
If you ever tear the goldfish an amoeba you'll have to break all the commonalities.

Let me know if you do.

Make the leaves periwinkle the moon pink the nature stamps red red red
Symbols on the dirt surrounding the only puddle left in your atmosphere.

2/5/07
now listening to "Ágætis byrjun" Ágætis byrjun, Sigur Rós