ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: Tin and Tinder
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007/06/tin-and-tinder.html
Thursday, June 7, 2007. Rain always seems to precede. We stand together underneath. Tin roofs place hunger and lungs. Before hearts and as hearts. We pace for one another. Hang our skins to blend. Into cream colored siding. As a sign that you can know. What thoughts are ticking by. If you only look. But our ears shield our eyes. As they forget to listen. To the truths tinning off. As rain coming hard from. Our honesties forgotten soldiers. Victims of the fragile circumstance. This false tinder we would.
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beautiful blood: It's not you it's me
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007/06/its-not-you-its-me.html
Thursday, June 14, 2007. It's not you it's me. Green is the snow beneath. Our wintered soles that shuffle. Back and forth looking for static. Spark to light the wood. We’ve been gathering. Our cold weather words. Oh but we do consent the clouds to gather so heavy as spouts that poor our heads full of pounding, leave us rising amnesiacs. Over the ice of summer. 8220;sink us ships. In cathartic bliss and cold,. Joni Mitchell would love this. June 15, 2007 at 7:25 AM. June 15, 2007 at 3:16 PM.
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: June 2008
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html
Monday, June 30, 2008. I’ll be your whatever you want. Method aside the formula is simple—wave your weapon in some unsuspecting strangers face and snap. The initial product is any number of facial expressions: surprise anger fright confusion happiness; the final commentary is a forced window into people’s introspection regarding definitions of personal and public space. Oh so much fun! Http:/ www.flickr.com/photos/milesandmiles/. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Stuff Places. Things. View my complete profile.
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: May 2007
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007_05_01_archive.html
Sunday, May 6, 2007. I am the hypocrisy. The bearer of my own. Extension towards what I cannot. Understand but me still carry. Each of seven faces. Balance fourteen holes forward. Over this plugged set of word. I am the same I am. The one who wants no desires. A machine that feeds on air. A horrible contrast white. Juxtaposing the beauty of black. Me my truths’ lies those around. Boiling from my skins. Each layer pains because pain is. Nothing but metalloid arsenic rubbing nothing. Call reality I am.
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: Modern Romance
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007/06/modern-romance.html
Sunday, June 17, 2007. Among the morning city. Of thought and physical brain. Bright blues of skipping. Light silvering over those. Tired bodies in for the night. A boy who rides his bike. Looks up into an unfamiliar. By and by and by. This gave me happy heart. June 18, 2007 at 7:42 AM. Roberto luis alejandro martinez. We can fly miles. June 18, 2007 at 9:57 AM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Stuff Places. Things. Its not you its me. View my complete profile.
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: I’ll be your whatever you want.
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2008/06/ill-be-your-whatever-you-want.html
Monday, June 30, 2008. I’ll be your whatever you want. Method aside the formula is simple—wave your weapon in some unsuspecting strangers face and snap. The initial product is any number of facial expressions: surprise anger fright confusion happiness; the final commentary is a forced window into people’s introspection regarding definitions of personal and public space. Oh so much fun! Http:/ www.flickr.com/photos/milesandmiles/. July 16, 2008 at 10:28 AM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: June 2007
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007_06_01_archive.html
Sunday, June 17, 2007. Among the morning city. Of thought and physical brain. Bright blues of skipping. Light silvering over those. Tired bodies in for the night. A boy who rides his bike. Looks up into an unfamiliar. By and by and by. Thursday, June 14, 2007. It's not you it's me. Green is the snow beneath. Our wintered soles that shuffle. Back and forth looking for static. Spark to light the wood. We’ve been gathering. Our cold weather words. Over the ice of summer. 8220;sink us ships. If you only look.
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: April 2007
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html
Wednesday, April 25, 2007. My small minds econ. Tuesday, April 24, 2007. Thirty-three rows of florescent splendor setting cherry tomatoes aflame. Walt Whitman once stalked these shelves eyeing little boys. With Ginsburg close behind. Then veganism slit their their throats started selling America's new noise. All kool kids hang on designer hooked denim. While Betty Crocker box speak last night b-ball game. An incident of smoke and tears for fears an illogic all its own. Just suckin' on that meat. Out from...
ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com
beautiful blood: Rubber souls (all 32 to take the curves through)
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007/05/rubber-souls-all-32-to-take-curves.html
Saturday, May 5, 2007. Rubber souls (all 32 to take the curves through). Through throat like DEATHGAMES. The kids with right. The right hand write. Collect, cacophony, clatter. Our lips wont listen. But will shame while Sun. Taunts a rubber soul. Back with the weight of awaking. Gravity and sleep kill dreams. Downing hard on a place. Where neck base meets. Our bodies disintegrating frame. I say we incorporate another party-pack deathgame night this week. May 6, 2007 at 11:41 AM. Stuff Places. Things.
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beautiful blood: I am the hypocrisy
http://ilvitcommeunmorta.blogspot.com/2007/05/i-am-hypocrisy.html
Sunday, May 6, 2007. I am the hypocrisy. The bearer of my own. Extension towards what I cannot. Understand but me still carry. Each of seven faces. Balance fourteen holes forward. Over this plugged set of word. I am the same I am. The one who wants no desires. A machine that feeds on air. A horrible contrast white. Juxtaposing the beauty of black. Me my truths’ lies those around. Boiling from my skins. Each layer pains because pain is. Nothing but metalloid arsenic rubbing nothing. Call reality I am.