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This is the last for youUser:Serprex 17:15, November 11, 2011 (UTC)

Always the jestful quip. The terse poignancy. The straight faced joke

Improper glares are sin. Missing that vital tangent. Two faced

You'll spy the door and smile when the light beam sets

Twinkle for a star collapse

You're walking the line on a drop to see there's something more than this which all of you would see for yourself to think otherwise and wonder elsewhere like space or kitchen

You'll find pneumonia sounds worse than it really is. I am pneumonia

Now bow. Arms folded. Lights out. Stop smiling. Post happiness. Something more

You'll flee tonight until sunrise and stop it all back again. Cover your ears and duck

Wake up on noon. Walks on and on no longing gone; nonetheless

So much more. So so long

Desperation can be smelt. Chased down by pity. Filth

Again down through the trapdoor for a moment to last one moment more

Wreck havoc without breaking posture. That's stature

To enjoy ritual. Intention in every action acted before. Preconceived processes by which forethought shows itself more capable than improv even without knowledge of this individual moment's individuality

Holding as held. It is the only signal. So important to detect, yet so dehumanizing to declare "I am man." The utmost priority yet nothing's worth the entire investment of one's self

The wrong thing done right is worth doing over the right thing wrong. That's audacity

You already knew this; mon petit mouchoir noir; lost in letters; we're all growing cold; I like you; who am I to ask who am I?

Somebody else

Look everywhere; looking elsewhere

I fail to see where my ambiguity lies. This is not one of those. These are aware of their faults. It's giving a crook a crooked smile when it hits what's hit. That moment of "I know, and now you; let's pretend we don't, and have some fun"

You've lost touch. Will that non sequitur be to go? No

& I slowly feel

I'll have it right here: feel slightest sterns confirm you've got naught but soft grit and suave chalk potted in mauve tricks or vermillion highs. Get twice doubled in four four time if you'll flip a coin and slip lip before it's chosen this or that

This; not that. Neither need be either

A long while passes

Our subject has died so long ago; no longer late. Life is ninety nine percent tactics; take it as it is. Take it as it goes; so it goes

Severance: I wish you well, but I don't care to see you

Compensation: Te quiero

Opposition: No you don't

Prophylaxis: Fuck me

Initiative: Fuck you

Here's mockery: Dandelions. Dandy lions; a story just aching to be written

All has been well

As long as you know what you're doing, all will be well

You know what you're doing; all will be well

A short while passes

All is well & forever will be

A shorter while passes

All is not well

A long while passes

How are you? / Meh / How are you? / Well / How are you? / Very well / How are you? / Quite well / How are you? / Rather well

Good

But it doesn't end like that. It isn't that easy. All is well, but it keeps going on. It falls apart and comes back again. It goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on again & again & again & again & again & again

Until we're here. Again. Doing this. Then that. Smashed together, crashed apart, smeared from days once held together by gentler times and calmer passions

Everyday we wake and choose to live a life but dead

I'm back

There was this person standing up there up far high up on taller ridges

Here's to ridges

I'm back

I want to meet someone nice

But time goes on. Times go on going. Every note fades away. Every tone pales

Here's to pale black lipstick

Kiss me, you're gorgeous

& don't worry, I know

We're all growing cold

& don't keep me close, I know

We're all growing cold

& don't leave me all alone

Lest we all keep growing cold

I don't want to grow

But...

Alright

That just confirms everything I knew about myself. A slap in the face

More like a stab

Thanks for that in all sincerity

I'll grow up and blow away

& yet...

So it goes

On & on

To each his own

But to him, certainly, his own

Until we find ourselves anew, passing in the dawn, wanting to blame someone else for who we've made them by trite inoculation. Our subject, so long gone, now rises

They'ven't Heaven fonder than this which we'ven't Hell more prudent

The lights went out last night. I traced a line in the dark. Some slight geometry designed to pair

Now it wavers

Brought to bear by slight, yet on second thought, but it's okay, because it's all the same in the end

No it isn't. Transposition is an abstract phenomena only appearing conceptually in models of the abstract. It cannot exist in one's consciousness. It is an unconscious occurrence. These things happen. The moment is after it's already occurred. It occurred at some point in time before now and after then. Plucked and set to dry; it's ripened

So glad I'mn't

What a mess. Such a nothing much. Just enough to stir. For when times are less

Whenever you're ready. Whenever you're done. Whenever you're whatever

Something, anything, but please more tangible than some broad everything. But if that's all, alright, lest nothing; whatever

The continuation ends, the head sits up, the body lays down. Say that's the worst, and I'll find something better

Don't say, just ask: Why do we do these things?

I don't know

Where am I going? I don't know. Why am I here? I don't know. Where are you? I don't know. When can I come down? I don't know. How will this end? I don't know. Will I still be here tonight? I don't know. Why do I love you? I don't know. Why don't I know? I don't know

Sick of this sick

You were sick, but now you're well again

Well, well, well; how do you do? I do do do! So so I so, I'm so so so!

I saw that I saw in the saw I saw. Then it cut me

My autopsy won't reveal anything you didn't already know. Roll me in all turned inside out and cut me again, one more time, to bring the outside out. There I'll be, already aged, wrinkled and bled

Like our subject, I'll've died long ago. I'lln't rise to greet the passing days

Days have passed

More days pass

Our subject, once fallen, once risen, now falls again

& still days pass

Tomorrow the sun will rise again

& the day after

Until one day there is no sun, and there is no earth. When there are no more petty crimes for petty loves, but only pretty moments unobserved by self observant servants of deterministic fatality. The slight fade will set to glow from frothy vapor wells pulled in by nearer gravity wells than when far meant for us something so short for whatever it is that is now

But that's not now. For now, the sun will rise again

& the day after

But this is why this time is finite, and this time I'll waste it all again in a rush. That's my style

Burn it all away. Self immolation never giggled so much gleed

Out of the ashes, what a thing we fairy tales tell for those who need mirrors spelt out to them in funny words and silly dramas of peculiar coincidences

All the time we have, yet I've spent it all in mumbling pasts. But what is there to say? We've only got to do. We'll talk without saying anything at all, if that's what we've got to do

Nothing need be done

It is done

How might one learn from the past without having it linger? To rot on, for too long; no more voluptuous, so lonely boresome; somewhat worrisomely whorish, however morbidly rotund

People aren't paintings. They're lithographic pornographies

Ripped apart to flee anxiety so to hear the whisper from the ear. Premature stillborn. Only one trimester this time round. Hope beckons this declaration be itself premature

Too soon. Preempted insofar as behavior lags behind thought. But it suits: a semicolon is a transitional point. It is no end, it is no beginning, it has no words to say, only elsewhere to go

Where else?

Give me something else to read

Thrice here's to insofar. If only I had three

Back to nothing

Now everything simplifies. The complexities have washed out and our subject dies one last time

& again. One last time

Prophetic insofar as some things are sometimes something

One more time is when the last time was last time

I prefer misery to anxiety

Comparisons make all bad sour

Here's to sour

It's after it bounces off the tongue that one realizes: scrap all that last few things, we were in need of a tangent

Here's tangent: to

Guess not. Here's where long term rationalization needn't be applied: when all choices result in regret, take on Hedonism

It's with thinking like that that our subject mightn't've needed to live more than once to die happy

More or less I'd've thought there wasn't something else to indulge in, yet I'dn't'ven't thought otherwise

Be it as it may, for as it is is only what it is through which intentions are supported by the environment surrounding

This is why one must have explicit morality. The end point of a moral stand is this: I'd die sooner than

Oh what the Hell, like this'll ever've been otherwise. When morality enters, abstraction has overstayed itself. Let it exit, so that we might speak of that which concerns us over those which concern others. Swindled for I wither, hither I go less tethered; but lesser I am if measured against feathers. This is my weeping

It passes

; is a transition into the next year. Like days, these too will pass. Scale scales

That's a rather awful line. Here's another: To scale an anthill on the top of a mountain is a high altitude climb as far as altitudes go

Breaks the point, falls out of line; especially with alluding how altitudes go

Fell out of focus. Blunder one way, then the other. If you can't see what's in front of you, how are you going to see what's behind? Stop looking back. These words are being ambiguous. I don't know how to go about noting that the ambiguities are wrong, unlike in the usual case where they suit whatever. Eventual comparison to how I've been tactically poor these past few days. But it'll pass, or maybe it already did. Things don't pass back to old; they pass into another passing

Then, there on the bench, a wicked grin spotted an olive trying to get her toothpick in a row. So he polished his teeth to go bite a nickle and bring back the change. Less than expected, but a bone's got to stretch a little. The olive walks on over and chucks a lemon for a cranberry. The lemon's got one choice to make: Lime or dime? Wine or dine? Make that two to go, back on the road, stomach flat on a cloud. Some stalk from the button presses a crater in the moon and decides that this impact is sufficient on the world at bay. Back to the olive and her cranberry: She ate it. Gobbled down and snapped up to grind, still wearing brackets hung on track lines stolen for a pair of dames missing belts to welt each other wet

Nonpareil; semicolon

I was told to tell this when this would be. This is. That was how I told. That being this inductive metaphor which is this

Semicolons are hot. Two years ago this was declared. Restricted to their proper use, lest they be some ugly mockery. The response: "I'm not very proper." Her romantic demand: When I found such a proper being; such a proper muse, I notify them that they are a semicolon; & that they must come with me

This is the tell

& that's that

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