the Skanooga demon the Siinisiikii demon the Skraeska demon
it were a great moth of a man, he roving rollsome up towards the trailhead as spoons of stream bewhittled down their glacial treads. like whipporwhills and canteloupes, they's passing down below, catastrophe of fruits and eggs all strewn about. he made straight for his woman where, an supped against a drop of hanging slaves, were awful-lockt an crucified below their swimming consciousness, whose opened gates were flowing forth immense candescent truths and lies, it smelled of offal, rattling crackbad dairies with their worthless hides all sewn on backwards, split an carved again besides their fast and quickening pulses (it's acceleration as you know, not speed that counts) so fly! united once they foundered on the brink and fell below the surface of a moor emotional eclipsed the afternoon in pinks and shades, where inside ousted metaphor. he'd aped beside himself, without-within himself, unsure of where he stood and crawling slowly towards the bulk of what he'd seen, a tone was swimming in the air; it rang tenitis eared which perked up pricks and flew its length again repeating. but never never now it's dawning breakfasts on the splitted grapefruits shining lovely sugared sadness on the people laying cast from right to left to up and upside down in misery, he's ought to kindle on a light before the tomb of reticence, to open on a throbbing thing between himself. they'd tried and tried, they'd climbed out on the statue's prong, invited by their faith until were glassy cleared that nothing'd passed the grate. so lifting up their union'd arms and minds, they roared out words that spake with gleaming shean upon the winds, and rolled all swelling pools flooding lakes of sound to swarm the dales an in hollowed pits below till all the grooves were darkened drowning with the scream. the clocks were ticking filling up with warmest wine. the threads were pulling taught, their strings all mensely pursed. and echoes of the noise went wildly swinging up the banks for miles up through the sky. so take my leg, one said, and carve of it a meat, to cradle nourishment, to heat and boil over cackling flames. and long below were hearing voices trembling below earth, where often firm affinities were cast in stone to ne'er emerge a tie beneath their grave. some nonsense grafted on the temples from a varried time before, whose prostrate theologans spread themselves upon the sullied floor with bugs and creeping things until, their hands flecked riddled limbs apox they'd near expiry send themselves in shining holiness into the boulders. i were another wish a shattered plate upon the brow of inconsistant memories that wiggled to and fro upon a burrowed sleepless photograph. what meaning fell through all the wrinkled pages of her histories was sacred to ignore, and in itself it felt a part of information cloistered from renewed integrity by red and rob-hand jewelling. so snapping, thumbs upon, and coins all drizzling down as rain in sheets, we pulled the covers off of her til there she was, all peeled down and naughty in her skin, and tarnished by those looking eyes. who knew it though? who thought was horrid pensive sensitivities were waking in the arms and legs of all those beast identities: were one, and all united, summed it up, to conscience any other like a seed, that grows and seems to say that every ought is notwise like a metaphoric bloom, that every thing as seen resembles something other not, like salamander's skin a-glow with whistling hotness on the parts that grew apart. these are your sacraments, these felled the burned out homes of yore where ages passed between a blink and breath. the muscles tense. the juice and strength had all ran out evaporated slowly steaming right into the jungle mists, and no one saw the little people reaching out to pocket what they could of all our lore, and fliching so, they told it subtly small in groves that it were best to keep all of creations to the self, that that were where it wronged and one was right unhappy when it shared its soul and found respected all but lacking, in complexities and raw compatriation. invisible, women and childlike men had found a different way, and struggled on it daily, tilling ills into the dusk where satisfaction burred away and tumbled down like pastured wool over the eyes of sleepers. and cloaking, croaked and softly sickle-celled, it were asserted first, that that is no tomorrow, so they stape and, humbled, wound their crosses up above, and tranished by the falling mosses fingers, claimed themselves a pot upon the tarry, stripped and feathered moon. She leered down wearily and roped up all humanity with sorrow'd song, then clinging to the entrails of a hope, her sputtered ignorance becoming more and more unto itself was shown as heiracy, so flew out children, little ones and babes from all the worlds open eyes till atmosphere's had clouded o'er the streaming wire electric waves. astronomy is dead, he'd clear resounding shouted, bottled within coffins for the silky hand of night, and closed his open contract with the dreamer's empty thought. i'll not, as he began, nor ever recind any word, an army or vocabulary stalks, and weathery, they've grown up high about this world and fenced off from the understanding of the parson's ears, they'll thrive in ever-reproductive splendour, endless combination'd meaningless and pure - if purity's a thing at all - so all forget and back to farming earths, then back before and unto nothingness, from all where whence was borned a bride and vacuous the hogs that scrambled empty-heading into what was else. i'm leaving my perenthesis open. from tale after argument descending into conscious lies, the truth's that nothing ever starred my in the face, was bold enough to read my weeping sighs, and now we've got a robe-begotten prince, a half-said sacrosanct and mis-begotten family, the royalty of whom's all clotted in their horror to the world. are you different to me? are you safe? i'll shatter suddenly, and yelp a little howl of my own til no one's willing me to similar conceits. it's helpless here how everyone is lockt withing their selfsame locks of hair, about the neck reminding selves of seperateness and isolated narssicistic love. what time is it, thought time, a missing-gendered animal with nothing in-between its eyes, and hyphens convalescing on those shamed so silly brows: nothing, nothing, and nothing. growing from the ground and aged nutritious fluids spilled and soaked in all about then shot up sprout and seed till all was furrowed sad and shouting water on resounding joys. what oscilates so fragrantly and cries out minimal for skirting round the truth (what truth was there was smeared and belly-end) with lying shade all misappropriated. greeting all the wanderers we probed into their souls, took al experience, the bundle synthesized in several penny whispered books, whereby the populace had laced themselves in spiritual shapes. i'll not pretend to worry why a whoresome woe was scintilating, quiverring with fear, but nigh the dialect of misty eyes and temprtress walk, a man was beating on himself in agony from bloated old religion. so crafted by a hoax, they found their power in the lowest gut and so suggested on a repetition all their old philosophy and novel cream of representative communication. woman, man and all between was wearing out identities like corn-clothed leaves and strands of flying hair was trembled on a wind of rounding hells with nonsense or confusion of itself. i'd nary writ a thing before, and as he contemplated all creation spread out on the plate before her, she was weeping blood upon it, such imploring coquetry that all emotion came to shuddering and roarious laughter tilting slowly cross the heads of pins. we knew, we always knew, we though, that it was bound to end this way. we cooked our charities below the green leafed canopies and lugged them beading sweats into the shadow of the conquered devil's towers, served them to the poor, we skinned ourselves and gave our skins to those that had them not, and every toothto dentured servants, i'll your worker be, and smile every un-so-often atthe trickling sands of lightness spilling from your robes in waves and lending shimmered ripples through the lives of all, as stitching on the gown. so as colombus wove, he sailed clean off the edge the globe and entered into all imagination, where we've been historically entrentched since 1492 and all the everything's a dream. there's nothing inbetween. here's nothing underneath. there's paper plastered to me teeth and sewn upon my arms and legs, a mystery. they shad and sat and shaved their legs and all the growing hair that they could spot, for it was too  repugnant to their tastes, and crawled below the smear. and every day my sexual organs develop into something other else. i'd wasted on a holy half-content the near disputed tangled contents of my swarming brain, and slapped the beacon upside under for a warning crash of clouds on ancient mythological non-entities. but who'd have thought to know that there were so much pains in my imagination? all the family gathered round, and uncles cousin'd aunts with grandmama, and parent figures benching callow heads, banking ideas on the slopes of linear continued twangs, the strings of old reality were shaking, such vibrating o'er the ore of hearts and newest  possibility, such craft and vomitting was never seen as now, and blackness, lightness all around. so climbing supple backwards, all the souls were  hunged and hanging upside tackled from the world's earth by their feet til caterwaling lepers called and hooted down to earth again. a miracle, a spontanaiety of somely minds and chafing intellects, whose little  well-intended tense bourgeoisie embellishments had carved the a pestle neath the knave of holy famed intelligence, and worried relatives were scattered scurrying accross the globe of sacred beaurocrats fulfilling this and that of errant paperwork that they might better rectify the wrong, reduce the sentence manifold to charm. beluzeth crowded in the little well like dynamite, and famed the vegetable intelligence from grotesque plaques about the jungled slopes and sloppy microscopic pains who scoffed and  groaned in pride and jealousy at all the introversions what could spite, could weep, could shingle off a braying halleluiah to the fearsome tepid much alluring sky. i thought it was a bird that flew without my mind, but kneeling on a sandstorm so apparently the thought's another thing beside whose smelted sore castration's nothing but a farce hollow effect, a skin without a core, such shallow as a skin - that is to say, to shout, to speak in winding postraphes prophetic near collaboration labias and spitting on identity that nothing shied away from it, that all the failures of never limitless time incorporated angular and rakish misdemeanor in their trembling fleshy thighs. the feeling such and so like pressure on a smeared machine that pushes out and out and wants explosion begs a kindness  chortling animal discretion, while when first man and woman innocent not ape-like for a switch had thunk their boundaries once lifted ever universed expansion into ever ever yon, but cheated by the raw emotion, papers  dangling all around, they'd had to let it go the hand, release support in threesome faithful foolishness to only what had been their tool. created now, and ended then, it all began and shreiked to realize the archetype. and atoms pouncing misdt the equatorial confections, shimmered slightly in the untouched rabid bowl of a face, it clung in wet ecstacy there, a speck upon the brow. who shows, and with such vanity could dare to utter pensament its boresome old continuation of an endless ego'd shoring up the fragmentary nature of the beast that dwelt so underneath, so hairy-armed invisible shon forth its shimmer excellence in twelve-mile minutes by the wayside of a child's roiling cripple ghostly such tumultuous of embrionic satisfaction creed. she knew it were a syllable, and felt through mud for sound, but sleeping from her dreams inside reality, the rules were changed and not could eye with ears a beat of rhythmic pound. but bellowed nasty on a forward sentiment, the crawling drag, the slippers over gravel on a moony ritual, it's empty-loaded notwithstanding panes of thrice-thick melted dripping sand and all the ink that's spattered bout the spats of male children's visions of themselves. who thought that they've seen it as a so, or as a causal entity that drifted clause-like over hills of feathered unreality like skinny wooden spinners on the depths of ancient bogged traditionistic fantasy. i speak? i run? i slip between the tides of ever-empty life? and all that's everywhere is roundly squared, is upside under-headed for a swarm of laziness, of shaved and sundry letters, dancing over heights of thoroughbred philosophy, undoing and reshaping all the figures speckled in the mold. and look! the world's changing every growth,  a long-indentured essay's contradiction, happy in its fine religious servitude, and slaving for a crown of sunked eyes, of cheeky shames; and see! the earth is galloping an awkward transformation, in the crevice shadows on the cliff are rounded proceses and means to ends, the boulders silent spilling out their beneficient gaze and stony creativity abrood with elder impotence of half-lived dreams, of things that ne'er explored never did chancing to grow old, always afloat upon the corners of imaginative sheer mathematics, worlds chopping worlds out and snipping all what substance on the grain of wooden hope. behold! the world, now encanted, 's seething spurts of inconceivability: it's morphs are rapid unpredictable and spilling each-which way, the stones and flesh, the spiracles and waves is offered daily as a new incarnate existant, or nearly so from failing recognition, bold incredibility infatuate, the tide had swept new nuances so all the flux and oscilation's reached a new crescendo nor plateau, what's ever as uncalculated curvatives, who's 'cceleration's stopping on a battery of endlessness, the only volume of availability in hampered sleep that claws its freedom on a slate to hold for all whose vision's not to over-loading 'ceive. who eats? who drinks? who's so behind the times in pleaantries and near bedazzled interest on the living song from death to spinning numbers in the storm: it's all of you and nothing roused the atoms in the emptiness, that called up harlequins toward the nightly bower of the sun, and mass-producing poor symbologies had shattered all the normal coda healty floating on the incandescent lie of falses or of static malnutritious kinkered simpling conceived. i shamed my vigor on the seat of gods, and spun by strands of color into final true unconsciousness and losing track of what my eyes could see, it wasn't as a tunnel, but an exoskeletal and smiling creature, grapling on its own to stay apart and part eh constant strife of what seventy-billion scribbling fingers wrought upon the daily hour and minutescent whole. and wiped it all away. and washed. two felled and clambring grey cyclonic tides all bathing in the ragged pines were shamrock messages in roiling infamy to all the brothers roundabout the singing stew, so singing lord, ad you e'er thought upon the brimming-over of the fishly black, but butterflied and washt away, the colorless imagination led itself asstray. in word and deed we'de thought to've crusht our old desires on the steeples newly rought, we lazed together in and out of swimming ("i'm nor good nor awfully bad at not of this or that") ell return. please, prick me/her with all-resounding sound, and crash the blight into a swimming pond of needles where its twelve-fold hands will curse and cry amid the darkning day. so pray, so lie and let imagination velvet self away, and know what all it is to be the other kind, to smell yourself, to catch a teardrop on the heat of straying lashes through a boldly singing game. and want we all an everyone, an wish we nothing nor the simple same, an crying out, we called ourselves to shame. to know you'd seen a kind of her before, to simple sheen and craft a way of leprachauning out a gentle steel from where the head's embedded in the soul, to graft and grasp a slipping canvas truance tween the shuddered fingers of a youthly price: this is not eagerness, but jealous biting jade. Lemures upon the dregs were speaking tongues to bats, and crying sacriledge on simpletons in dancing clothes and candied old respectless glean, they jibbered happily and miserable flew apart from one anunce to cradle all the babes in mortal inhibition regularity. and trying doing isn't working it. and working artists aren't receiving celibate untruths. and slipping pills to bubbles in the ocean cries to old affection let us be. attatch the this to that, the reference to the mythological - and pride, and pierce, and selfless handyheadedness. so bold outraging ideologies might drink themselves to death. so old religious prophets sink into a mire of mud and grueled teeth. so riding bears the sport was later claimed a fantast. we woke, and found ourselves a hole to dwell, spelunk, and scratch away the mud. but what seems reasonable now, they queried on a dying sun, and what so twisted all apart the shattering gage. i love you, miss you, want you desperately, to kill the flies abuzzing on the lore unsatisfied and big. just plug it up and drain is all when next the ditch presents.

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