the yips

[from:   the Loss Lieder]

anger is,  as then title
“don’t lean on my soul”
or little tiny-ish bits broken up      they do call that
                     something, of the humanesque
forgotten label 
all folded up         lowering the sonic boom
            that’s just pretty blanched trouncing
whoa boy   that blam wd. scare cats a-sleep where
repeated repeats frame structure;

crying by the roadside is
electronic decoupling asks or turns hard
stunt well or decently worn tourniquet
he gives you all the rules
doesn’t have a foci grasp agent, see?

all roads involute at rolling slash bells a night
racer turns off onto old faded road trace amphetimenish
tatter it’s likely a sneer all balled up         as if he had new
abreaction to the asiatic mode of reduction planned
rack to titter some and sob that phoned-down outline
wisp suggests personage in a parsonage, old world
energy insecurity ratted out the gasp of disbelief
as in this creep thief;  you were there lighting candles in
a chamber where pressure means running out into
colder air

asking is then falling inside people’s property,
a soul gets tattered & covers consumers,
a kind of glue, rashed by biblio non-reference
shout out stems from 3rd interventional
nabob runt, rotten as a truce, or a flit into ramped corners
go inflame some sloppy farfetched drawback,

then being gets to escalate slope motions
bars melting in the city engines of a lack sour thrown dent
someone has posted a thing about
how vibrate across flat mail winning the wrong war
presses flat clunk magicoid dross wander:
ya gotta love it!
      then popular cult, sure   in bitter potential for some
sociality:    frontline
    reader  publishings
dealing out
neo-sanctuary tips      all about hiking across inner cities
discourse nods
where that matador                 intently
gets ready
                        as you   speech unamericanize Attackville
to, burn a cape

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