In April you try plans
Turns into May
Best thing is I don’t know bleep
Take dressing for sun
Time after time bad target
Elevated by ungodly machine
is of good outcomes
Of all sacks what sack fits?
I call you without lines
Does anything come of no one?
And turn into sand no salt
Deep hole it all disappears
Guttural languages: lost
Sliver in tragus: rare
Armband from funeral home
Don’t go away in madness
Don’t go away too sure
What a devil says computes
Go ahead, have a hey-day
Sun squeezes into tight sky
Man walks blocks in search
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