On dead hands of an author will I say not. I have chundered something already.
What words must I speak then? What words that sleep I with some lullaby sweet tonight, what words? What song must I sing, here is Billie telling me to leave her alone just as well? Will thee listen to this sound of my soul in a day or two?
'Tis bombardment I know, a barrage of my mind again. Will not one ear be erect now. Why! why won't thee hear?
Am I to genuflect on this concrete and wish upon this trace, an old trace of one hath I lost in the eyes of a child to find my way to thee ? So tell me what must I sing.
Alas! Thou speak not. Will my queries be a whirlpool of my tears anon.
Ask I again, oh yes I do. Hear me mother! hear me right here. What grotesque smile must I smile for thee to be behold this twist of me cheeks' skin? On what reason shall I talk more? I am so drowsy again.
'Tis deluge of questions in two; can the number find a room in thy chest in just a blink, and I, oh my mater in e negligee am I aware of in the only kitchenette of the house, won't thou tell me what syllable must I utter? I am afraid, will I be stultified much earlier than I should. Thou see, art thou slipping from the cracks of my phalanges so easily. Alack! How shall I keep thou here?
Will I tell thee in this sight my eyes had a jiffy agone as kissed one lid the mouth of the other. Will I acquaint thou with that dream I beheld. Must I address it, a reverie in some nightly hours for had these nightmares been keeping care of the vigil night after night. Will I call it a reverie thus, though was it no day of a sort may thou even see as having a kind. Will thou let me lead? Oh! Hath thee never been at the rear. Will thee then follow me?
Endless highways of misdirected means,
to walk along the lonely street of dreams,
to live in a world where nothing is as it seems,
and take pursuit of pleasure to extremes...
So shall me feet trudge, or shall they not? Will they cease if evinces the quiver of thy mind a denial. So speak not until hath I said enough. Here I kindly beg.
Lanes blurry with white wayside, a rush in the veins can I not not in this sleep deny, and flows here an ounce of blood whilst spit I a gallon from my eyes. 'Tis an avenue still surreal I promise.
Copses of tress were not, but were bushes in bottle green there. So here having woken up when 'tis a quarter to the eighth hour of this evening will I mayhap spend on my wistful lament, am I so thirsty. Alas! what this desert in my nape that grows this thorn on my tongue! Beware mother!
Is it of no force to slay, not thee but me.
Oh beware must I. Oh! Warn must I meself for lets my chest away a feeling for thee, but yonder I behold thy visage so clearly, in beige a hue thee smile so big. I have lost thee. Oh mater of the same blood! Oh mater of my kin! I have lost thee if may I say it once more, on dregs of the cold - cold air encompasses me that at this right moment.
I hath lost thee, and smile a little while for must I admire thine.
Or it a verity? Am I a liar unde thy influence? So pliable hath my heart been, will it spread open for thee to kiss it goodbye time and again, but such imbecile is it, here I feel it underneath the red of my pullover.
Touching the yarns and threads, not too close to the zipper I feel it beat, drenching me all in gory color of thy womb.
Yonder will I grin soon. Ah! can thou keep it right there on the edge of thy lips?
Ah! another smile thy answer for me to conceive. Will I take that in. Why do thou smile at me?
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