viewing pleasure on the balcony of the apartment with cigarette and wine in hand

see me drinking malt beverages on the corner of the ocean, where the sun plays its warm pulp upon the skin of certain flowered moments, but who's there with angelic walk outs from a strike that became what locked out my desire from the false systems of the world.

verily, we were all talked out, and wearily we began to walk out of our plastic cages arrayed like museums in the desolate days of old order the color of marble.

ancient singing in the belfry, no bats this time, only soft relief of sculptures singing like painted masterpieces upon the darkened spires of our dream city's desires, the ancestral homes where we spoke out like archaic speakers torn out of an antiquated radio. so speak with me about the block out, why does it work and not for everyone who recieves the fall out, do you understand?

Who is this man?

Seething scenes from the post-ambulance chariot ride, what we'd bring came from the white halls and room 33, where they silently waited like vultures in the desolate dance of an exasterbated dream. pianos lined the ceiling, and what more, the violins were stinging all the nurses and doctors who couldn't imagine play.

Angel of songs, release your wand, you don't need their magic anymore, angel of love, release your dove into the soft sound of the wind carrying dandelion seeds across the brows of lonely desperate people who are at their end.

And were we seen, their memories would be blocked out, by serpentine flowers vined around what was chalked out on the pavement, a child's drawing with wise words that say "who are you? and who are you? and who are you? and who are you?" as if it were just a hopskotch game.

Do you really drink from the fountains of antiquity or are you drinking ale in the house of inequity?

Wise men say...