Whose bucket is this?
here. we can go once. many evenings they are full. other mornings they are empty. it is merely a matter of selection and deselection. not so many that interpretation is corrupt. tho enough to embody emptiness. a lot depended upon that bucket of henfeed.
Mary even told fortunes of the Spiritualist intrigue. Seven texts reduced to seven texts become 11 words, randomly ordered. Served capriciously, all from a bucket, septenate tears. Azariah wept. He yearned to be an acrostic. Please somebody make an acrostic of my name, he wept. It would make me feel complete.
funnel the words in. tip the words out. irrigate the screen with every dense mesh that you found down the well. keep them close in a skin with a handle or drench yourself utter. Utter under butter on the bread of the bucket. That is, a lunchpail. With bread and milk. What could be better.
Whose bucket is this here?
This is my bucket. It is unlike your bucket.
What is in my bucket. Bucket.
There is a bucket in my bucket.
My bucket is a gland on an onanist's onionskin.
No. That's wrong
Don't you mean basket.
// trained to be as song
shed // sprained in keep
wellsprung spattered with
bucket of lodestone
loathing crafted baked-on
oneiric shag run
patently old fake
for now the punctuation
shrills a way out
take it and run sibilant
of undetected uninfected
lariat machinery
dumbfangled twice
don't you mean handcream?
dropping precisely
heaviness emptied
hone shone scone out
a weight description
falls the dropping
impropriety-um-runs-out
neo-hole reduplicated
don't say that word
There's a hole in my bucket. i know i saw it last night.
My bucket is a feeling drenched in holograms. wring it out of its paradigm
Stop machine language from leaking, my whimpering culprit. It's only as good as it's gotten.
Eliza. Hole. M.M.M.M.M.. Bucket. So much better. Than utter.
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