Antennae

Sh
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Every loss of rain

I was fat.  Dense.  Troubled.
I am bored.  Dreaming of ashes.

Language no one is open to.

I remember being a nasty rock (let bosses give their nasty life to:  that's a family bog.)
A bog is something you get stuck in.

Laughing all the way to the race for loots.

Sag with your rack -- the knowledge of my interest is fake.




Land

I stride to the cave
Where there is marking
Of my Tastes in level moments.

Has there been a mess which is
Easy to like?

I gather the scraps of my accumulated documents:
Bills, receipts, notes, statements,
Their scope so minute and cruel that I
Am poor in the coldness of a cast out lump.

Elevation carries with it the nap I take:
Every day in the morning my sedative
And I reach out for love.

Werk

And when you allow hope to be a person, you don't have money.

I was lost in a poem.

Anger with pain equals fear of my own thoughts.

I think no one loves people without saying oceans glow at the laughter of a check.

Checks laugh.

I like doing many things.

I like working money with openness.  That means dealing with openness for its reasoning.

I like reasoning.

Death skips its own orgies.

I do not know why people do what they do.

I used to think I did.

As a child makes people remember peace,
I cannot live without my own will.

Many pagans are good.  I love them.

Today I give my own life to a monster of beauty:  life.





Go where you need to go.
Be who you need to be.

I thought I was reasonable about the creative mind.

I am thoughtless as a handshake.


Maybe you will enjoy the being of algorithms.



I have adjusted my reasonability to the rats, the mice, the cats, the (dice),
the women, the crazy, the organs, the loss.




An algorithmic writing


Bob made his green ham the love of my babies.
He snatched my right hand and made me cruel.

Lesbian and whole, rest is good.




A poem for my maker.

Thy reason is where thy life belongs.
Thy writings are where thy mind saves maps.

I draw upon your guests; I deal with my answer.
She knows her robe is of jargon.

I save you and give you paper.
Actress was a crock of projects.

Loudly I read and there is a people:
Daily I crave my own chastity.

Illness is the only reasonable way to write a sink.
Moment of reeking:

Elementary mantel with anxious makers.

Man lives for apples

Answers are my shock.

I gave myself my own chin.

I gather with the mammon a paper act.

Charging masturbating russians with nasty owls is cruel.

I gather knaving inches to mark that ovary.

This step is folding out of moments of fear.


Hamburgers and screams okay soap.

I remember that I created methods of  orgies.

I remember punks.

Will you make a wank work?

I am reading peeps.




Nap.
I can be a starship,

Shit

Like my own breeziness -- Death minds its rank fascism.

I ride with naked bodies:  their money reeks of marking openness with pain.

Andrea knew that I fought Artistic murder with reasons (Anger, Law, Rural stink).


Ogres don't like arguing rape.  They prefer canned apples.

Good for all?

I try a poppy so my own rules find their laughter.
Sinking with the teachers:  there is life.

Mashing a moment

I like riding a fact.

(Punk).

Bejeezus420

Macadamia

I search for another distribution of myself:
A poem that is alike to another as I am to you.

Or

Material capital (wow).

Dilation wad
Dilatory reck
On my map.

And nefarc?

Mote will raise
ant sally.

I and that
Sap way another

Anger.

Ashen rage:
Rays popes where awrgument
Leads.

No one bog
And I cast

Your being

With sassy
Algorithms (oy).

Pain mothers reason
To be its own definition of books.

Law full with facts.

Unfinished business

Today I'm asking to be free.
Today I'm asking to live.

I am loving; I am creative; I am free.

I am worried that I was cruel to my family.

I know that I can believe rape is pain.

There is anger and fear.  I make art from being alive.

Please read what is loving.

I give you my love.

Always,

Julia Murray




Sylvia Rivera was the affirmation of being.
I am her memory.

Books will be books.