Dens of the China men

[Painting] When I grow up I want to be a little boy, David G Baker.

Beauty saves nothing, and the AA group sings in the shower with grunt of approval. They reach no grounding, but the innocent monkey babes call for a lost disk. It's all about the growing up, and they say it all the time- those who know it all. ALL just let him drop the ball, yet again- they've got twelves years on you only because it sounds good to lie. Around we dance to delirium and hope for something of the sense variety. The gorgeous day promises nothing but everything in a goodbye. Timing near to someone and a rug with holy grandeur, a jump to nothing new and an avoidance of the extra ordinary, the mundane in malpractice. Education is everywhere when you're looking down, a higher bunch in the dens of china men. It smells like the crazy lady from Iowa nowhere and an inappropriate suggestion in her olfactory. Implying the wistful, sort of a cloudy day in the freezer. Make the wrong way, ignore the uniform red- no one likes a communist anyways. Reboot the matrix and think out until you find it, because it hidden in the one hundred-fuckin-fifty buck departed cow, draped on her shoulder with fringe- on the edge of a consumer spiral. Music and removed.

The mother of someone gone, a boy in his wallowing. What is it when the rational get too free, the drink that they done gone and drunk. Stumbling in a sexy sideways alley, nothing but a trash can and being too eager to meet the curious. It's too much for the ant- but as the arthropoda rejects its everyday way we find cliche- not because it's right or true. Babbling in the neurotic ways of a passing by. With a dog and misaimed manners, unable to see the blind and unable to oblige the polite inquiry of the harness, he found himself thrown. Totally out of some basic elements and the walking seems too much. They sit in the grass with dew on the ass and it's all about wondering where they'll be. Clearly now, more so than before- you are beyond the word. The world, the jonesing youth of nothing special. The babies on the run, a totem in tandem bonding pass the necessary. Without power, the lady knocked you out- with diamond in the cunt of something to see, sea and it's nothing remotely me. Too much to play at the YMCA, it's getting tantric on the nose when metal hits the bridge. Do what you will, mutate and rotate until there is something of a curve. In the way the light shines up, we hint towards nothing sort of corrupt.