Bad Mold
I want to thrive in a mist of beads that shine on my back as a happy wooden scratcher.
Eat Kiwi and heave.
A walking dinner table could not distract me from literature.
Pricking to a deep realm that excites unseen liquids.
Oil may rise the leather height of a pocket, only to drive out the fibers.
Seas of crust.
Altitude of wild animals.
Caves of wharfing stars.
David Muir McEntire
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