The Bonsai Story Generator Thread
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
http://www.critters.org/bonsai.html
Here's a bonsai poem of mine, done from the text of one of my old blogs. You have a go, too, with one of your pieces!:
Here's a bonsai poem of mine, done from the text of one of my old blogs. You have a go, too, with one of your pieces!:
Righteously Indignant signs his marriage to the Chattering Classes is the only real theme bar, they’ve got their readers.
Welcome to complain in a pre-addressed envelope picked from every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in an inclusive society where thieves and colonic irrigation, or auditions for theorising, for them, twenty years ago in maintaining diversity, and hub-cap stealers in a Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah – eldest daughter of Little Britain today, so they’re more likely to chatter except for “Urrrggghhhh”.
By the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every bully beef clogged pore.
I see.
Politicians and thus I wish to the Chattering Classes for yapping, for woolly thinking, for them, twenty years ago in maintaining diversity, and their groupies.
Political journalists who talks about reiki and insensitive to do much else.
Ah, that’ll include smartarse bloggers, then.
And their cap in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a media created myth.
It does not exist.” Righteously Indignant of the Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah – eldest daughter of Little Britain today, so they’re more likely to be people with Tony and never seems to remind you know they’re being sarcastic and thus I wish to Burberry cap-wearers and culture and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in the strongest possible terms about an article in the style of 1970s end of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I wish to the scriptwriters of them except for “Urrrggghhhh”.
By the local cricket grounds and their groupies.
Political journalists who through a steamroller, pinched from his marriage to the editor of the Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah has employed Californian lifestyle guru Giganta Swindell to the editor of articles.
Who are they then, these Chatterers?
Are they throw themselves on current affairs shows.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their head down in the strongest possible terms about reiki and muttering as a social collective that such stereotypical reductionism is the only real theme of these Chatterers?
Are they throw themselves on current affairs shows.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their place, who eat canapes instead of these sorts of these sorts of the Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a nice little Garden of that Chinese temple where Steve McGarrett would have us doing.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their groupies.
Political journalists who talks about art and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in Faliraki and about talk itself, forever, and about talk itself, forever, and feng shui and Cherie, so he heads to remind you that such stereotypical reductionism is Panels on their hands, who eat canapes instead of Newport Pagnell writes to the Chattering Classes is the envy of Hope the scriptwriters of self-esteem and pretentiousness of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I wish to Burberry cap-wearers and culture and that you’re thick.
The tacky judgement and thus I wish to design their readers.
Welcome to chatter except through alcoholic poisoning.
Er, so they’re more likely to some woman or other with the silent concentration of Hope the letters sent to complain in their treble, drinking with Tony and learning the editor of a Limburg Brother salivating over a golden B.
You know.
Clive James coined the dangers of 1970s end of every episode of self-esteem and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in the style of the Chattering Classes is flattened by two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a sound out of stamps after all the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in the style of every episode of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a plastic two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a late-night, after-work City of Hope the silent concentration of the Daily Heil, “Dear Sir, I see.
Politicians and sticks it in a field and muttering ...
Welcome to complain in a pre-addressed envelope picked from every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in an inclusive society where thieves and colonic irrigation, or auditions for theorising, for them, twenty years ago in maintaining diversity, and hub-cap stealers in a Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah – eldest daughter of Little Britain today, so they’re more likely to chatter except for “Urrrggghhhh”.
By the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every bully beef clogged pore.
I see.
Politicians and thus I wish to the Chattering Classes for yapping, for woolly thinking, for them, twenty years ago in maintaining diversity, and their groupies.
Political journalists who talks about reiki and insensitive to do much else.
Ah, that’ll include smartarse bloggers, then.
And their cap in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a media created myth.
It does not exist.” Righteously Indignant of the Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah – eldest daughter of Little Britain today, so they’re more likely to be people with Tony and never seems to remind you know they’re being sarcastic and thus I wish to Burberry cap-wearers and culture and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in the strongest possible terms about an article in the style of 1970s end of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I wish to the scriptwriters of them except for “Urrrggghhhh”.
By the local cricket grounds and their groupies.
Political journalists who through a steamroller, pinched from his marriage to the editor of the Daily Essess gossip column: “Junior Cabinet Minister Norman Schnurrbb’s delectable wife Huhaahah has employed Californian lifestyle guru Giganta Swindell to the editor of articles.
Who are they then, these Chatterers?
Are they throw themselves on current affairs shows.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their head down in the strongest possible terms about reiki and muttering as a social collective that such stereotypical reductionism is the only real theme of these Chatterers?
Are they throw themselves on current affairs shows.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their place, who eat canapes instead of these sorts of these sorts of the Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a nice little Garden of that Chinese temple where Steve McGarrett would have us doing.
Anyone who through a little education no longer knows their groupies.
Political journalists who talks about art and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in Faliraki and about talk itself, forever, and about talk itself, forever, and feng shui and Cherie, so he heads to remind you that such stereotypical reductionism is Panels on their hands, who eat canapes instead of Newport Pagnell writes to the Chattering Classes is the envy of Hope the scriptwriters of self-esteem and pretentiousness of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I wish to Burberry cap-wearers and culture and that you’re thick.
The tacky judgement and thus I wish to design their readers.
Welcome to chatter except through alcoholic poisoning.
Er, so they’re more likely to some woman or other with the silent concentration of Hope the letters sent to complain in their treble, drinking with Tony and learning the editor of a Limburg Brother salivating over a golden B.
You know.
Clive James coined the dangers of 1970s end of every episode of self-esteem and that you’re thick.
The “Chattering Classes.” Nowadays you’ll read, say, in the style of the Chattering Classes is flattened by two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a sound out of stamps after all the Vietnam Vet poodlesnatcher at the end of every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in the style of every episode of pier saucy revue comic Empher Semier from every bully beef clogged pore.
I believe in your Thursday morning edition, namely How To Spot a plastic two Kappa-blinging boy racers sharing a late-night, after-work City of Hope the silent concentration of the Daily Heil, “Dear Sir, I see.
Politicians and sticks it in a field and muttering ...
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come next year.
There will speak clearly, that I am cold.
No more.
Here, clear: I am cold.
No more.
Here, clear: I Then he asked, What is a traveller's mirror catches a carpet floor, right to left.
His deck chair like a shoulder.
This man, perhaps a read-up of cars, and how firm rule rules from the first without a dying Western blaze upon a shoulder.
This standing man's eyes Reflect more than the kiss bestirring deep green firsts of 'social'?
What Next year There will be long red solstice light above a photographer's flash.
This man, perhaps a yawning V sprawls imperiously across a need of this frame.
His blank eyes seem to myself.
Bare birch boughs clutch at his chest a servant, stands, But the camera's attempt at chiaroscuro fails to mask his civil servant stands, But the camera's attempt at silver air.
The winter robin's beak forages for berries in a sepia image, occasioning sunset, straw boater on, cigar under his civil servant stands, But then still, What is a traveller's mirror catches a bright Decembered dusk lit bough, through a bright Decembered dusk lit poised, is it imbued with his white-clothed body on cigar under his civil servant stands, But the camera's attempt at silver air.
The winter robin's beak forages for the owners.
He reclines in a corner tucked to pretend to glance at an easy story's beginning; One of afternoon boredom and cases and a traveller's mirror This man's eyes Reflect more Here, clear: I Then he asked, What is 'what'?
To which we must question the meaning or meanings?
And then, How And then, How And then, How can language which may not reflect meaning, or meanings of?
Then, then, then, What is meaning?
And, Is 'meaning' different meanings of afternoon boredom and faces will speak clearly, that is, speak clearly, that is, speak clearly, that I am cold.
No more.
Here, clear: I me?
Then What is a question, if not language, which we must question the meaning or meanings, which What is a question, if not humour them nor come next year.
There will be gold peering through a bright Decembered dusk lit poised, is 'how'?
After which, What is 'what'?
To which we must question if not reflect meaning, or meanings, which we must question the meaning And, Is 'me' merely an 'I'?
Then he asked, What is 'why'?
And then, then, What are the imperviousness of social and individual ontology?
Then he asked, What are the imperviousness of 'ontology'?
Then, What is a bright Decembered dusk lit bough, through to dayblue moon, the meanings of this frame.
His eyes radiate in Somapalem Andrapradesh.
Behind him, tall, erect, face full to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come next year.
There will not humour them nor come to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come to harm.
My fire's inside.
I'll keep there, come next year.
Bizarre!
http://www.myspace.com/brain_of_c
go padres
go padres
go padres
go padres
go padres
go padres
go padres
go padres
how do they do it?
uncanny and Everything has change How does he got a triple Blackout weaves its way through the cities Blackout weaves its way,...
I remember when you sang That song about today Now its way through the cities Blackout weaves its way,...
I remember when you sang That song about today Now its tomorrow and Everything has change How does he do it?
how do it?
how do it?
uncanny and immutable.
This is such a colossus decanter Retrenchment and foolishness Whats the odd negotiation, a strike Drilling for the fence, got a triple Blackout weaves its way through the cities Blackout weaves its way I remember when you sang That song about today ...
Ignore people will be amazed at least once in your life… and Eve, it will make us nauseous.
Eat a dram, and innocence….
Unless they love it!
Never think about how Cain and innocence….
Unless they were the other driver even more.
Listen to a headache and we’ll get caught up in the first children of love and respect everybody, its nicer.
Do not respect everybody, its funny.
In fact laugh its funny.
In fact laugh its funny.
In fact laugh and we’ll get caught up in the time you lazy bastards, and innocence….
Unless they are an endangered species.
Visit Scotland at least once in your ears start to a headache and innocence….
Unless they are an endangered species.
Visit Scotland at least once in a dwarf trip over in which case hand them back.
Never do this at a christening though.
Take every opportunity to music loudly, and Eve, it only leads to tingle, turn it releases endorphins as they have poo-ed in the same nets as tuna… so apparently its funny.
In fact laugh and we’ll get caught up Its natures way of Adam and I will take you see a bag of Adam and leave the other driver even more.
Listen to music loudly, and smell of carrots before you lazy bastards, and Abel managed to road rage, blow kisses instead you lazy bastards, and sing loudly.
Never do this at the amount of carrots before you go out how Cain and innocence….
Unless they are an endangered species.
Visit Scotland at the amount of carrots, and sing loudly.
Never do this at old ladies, they are an endangered species.
Visit Scotland at the amount of carrots, and then we sing Immortalit Never wear tweed.
Ignore people who say “but I will take you that your ears start to music loudly, and Abel managed to compute, and smell of telling you can say “respect your ears start to charity once in a dram, and leave the car.
Always suck in the street… laugh...
its nicer.
Do not respect ...[/c]
Paolo wakes up in the first flush of one witch and tasted putrescence in his stare, behind her back.
Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from the stake Her hands He feels his death renewed.
An evil man escaped Inquisitions' waves Behind the coldest northern horizons of basil.
He smelled gianduja before he drew a drawing rolled into his mouth.
He feels a man with eyes the evil man smiled, Of course, with eyes the chaos the sound of one witch and tastes a stranger embraced him with eyes darkened as pure night.
In an older man's deep voice, a tube and her mandolin-playing warlock pimp.
The cloaked man towered over him in the rest of one witch and her mandolin-playing warlock pimp.
The crowd howled as it slides into a tube next to dust unnoticed.
Paolo returned to find clean air not resigned to permanent misery.
The crowd howled as flames curved towards their village.
Paolo lay dying a priest in a drawing furiously crouched a chapel vestibule.
A poem about 500 or so years ago.
Before the prey in his stare, behind her back.
Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from the stake Her hands but his nose with both of silent vultures.
Basil plants greyed with feigned complaisance.
The evil man smiled, Of course, with both of a job-well-done disposing of armed men while painting.
The shield he paints to monastery grounds ornamented in his hands.
He covered his stare, behind her back.
Her hands tied behind the door in the scent filled the clouds.
The evil man considering what you just attempted.
While Ferdinand stilled the local dialect.
The crowd stirred as blood-red sparks flew in her hair.
Then he drew a symbol for carved wood.
The shield he paints to permanent misery.
The shield he outlined a symbol for basil seeds.
He hears the cloaked man, considering what you speak, thought the clergy.
First, he feels his hands.
He opened his hands.
He smelled gianduja before he saw her.
Putrified flesh scent filled the children in hiding holding paint brushes and tastes a job-well-done disposing of fresh baked bread in her Putrified flesh scent filled the rest of a job-well-done disposing of one witch and tastes a man with eyes the “virtues” of gianduja.
Paolo wakes up in three different languages.
A cloaked man relaxed, waxed eloquent of decayed excrement.
The cloaked man relaxed, waxed eloquent of blue.
His stare ensnared the first flush of gianduja.
Paolo returned to find clean air not resigned to find clean air not resigned to monastery grounds ornamented in all things.
Bibliobella waited at the stake.
Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from a priest in an adjoining room passed another towering cloaked man, considering what you speak, thought the stake.
Her head shaved.
Smoke rose from under her feet.
A young girl cried.
Bibliobella heard a previous death.
He draws weeds that ensnare the wooden effigy which smelled gianduja before he saw her.
Putrified flesh scent filled the village is safer for great fire.
Next he questioned him with eyes darkened as pure night.
In an older man's deep voice, a tube and kissed twice.
Within the stake hidden safely in an adjoining room passed another towering cloaked man, considering what you just attempted.
While Ferdinand stilled the clergy.
First, he saw her.
Putrified flesh scent of gianduja.
Paolo wakes up in an adjoining room passed another towering cloaked man towered over him in the first flush of ...
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
As this life's lesson has been all about being alone.
Its been, Kid?
You're on your own.
Watch people come close, watch people come close, watch people fall away.
Watch their sad mouths twist when they say they stay.
No.
That's a wish to deserve my childhood, sometimes.
As this life's lesson has been Kid?
You're on your pulse inside My unchained connection to deserve my childhood, sometimes.
As this life's lesson has been Kid?
You're on your own.
Watch people come close to.
I don't believe that away they stay.
No.
That's a wish to put it weren't?
Feeling good It'd just be alright I can't help but hope in me, will be me, and finally smashed.
I pray you come closer, closer closer still, as if a wish to be me, and why, specifically, I found your own.
Watch their sad mouths twist when they say they say they like me how you come closer, closer closer still, as if a wish to put it weren't?
Feeling good wouldn't feel I wonder what the resignation of petty free, pity-me bullshit.
That's where individuality lay.
Where I know You.
Your pulse inside my unchained connection to be me, and arrival of patience home.
The potentially destructive, potentially destructive, potentially destructive, potentially destructive, potentially destructive, potentially destructive, potentially infinite sink hole of patience home.
The heart whose tune only you've come close to.
I found your pulse inside my unchained connection with God, I know You.
Your pulse inside my unchained connection with God, I get to deserve my joyous expectation, the message of petty, oh pity-me bullshit.
That's where individuality lay.
Where I ...
You know, a slow 6/8 or 3/4. Van Morrison doing Astral Weeks backdrop would work musically. Say, Gmajor7/F. Improvising around two chords.
The problem with singing wordy stuff is that there are too many syllables that get in the way.
But could you find new combinations of words that make syntax out of nouns, adjectives, adverbs and verbs that create a new world from the words?
Somehow, I feel this particular program is a bit dim, because it doesn't split up phrases enough...
I'll find another program!
'Cause if my baby don't live here no one gonna You better belive it be, it I'm goin' way down south way down to shoot my old lady messin' 'round town.
And I ain't gonna wave my own world to look through, And that ain't too cool.
Uh, hey Joe, what'd I ain't gonna copy you.
Now if my baby don't live through And that ain't too cool.
Uh, hey Joe, I ain't gonna find me Alright, 'cos I heard you gonna run on down.
where you, where you gonna You better run on me Go ahead on wave on me Go ahead on down.
where you gonna..
You better run on drummer.
There's a Red House over yonder That's where you gonna..
You better belive it right now!
...go?
I can be it ain't me.
Alright, 'cos I did, I can be 9, I caught my baby don't live through And I ain't gonna Hey, Joe Well, dig it!
Hey Joe, said now, Hey Ah!
Ah!
Joe said now, Hey Joe you goin' to now, where you gonna run to now, where you goin' with another man.
Huh!
And I ain't gonna Hey, Joe I heard you shot her!
Alright I'm goin with that ain't too cool.
Uh, hey Joe, what'd I caught her messin' 'round, messin' 'round town.
Uh, yes I gotta go Hey, hey Joe, what'd I did, I caught her down to now, where you, where you gonna Ain't no one gonna Ain't no more.
That's all right, I came from.
'Cause if 6 turned out to be 9, I know her messin' 'round with another man.
Yeah,!
I'm goin' down the street, Pointing their hair, I got my old lady, you goin' with another man.
Huh!
And that ain't too cool.
Uh, hey Joe, I shot her!
Alright if all their hair, I ain't gonna You better belive it Hey Ah!
Ah!
Joe he ain't gonna copy you.
White collared conservative flashing down south, way down south Hey way down south, Hey, Joe said now, Hey uh, where my baby in ninety nine and I shot her you where you gonna...
Ain't no hangman gonna, Hey, Joe Well, dig it!
I'm goin' way back over yonder That's where you gonna go?
Joe!
Well, dig it!
Hey hey Joe, what'd I gave her messin' 'round with another man.
Yeah,!
I'm goin' down you shot you old lady, you can't dress like me.
Sing on back down where you goin' with another man.
Huh!
And I gave her messin' 'round with that gun in your hand?
Alright.
I'm goin way down to shoot my old lady down, you White collared conservative flashing down to shoot my old lady down, you know I still got my own world to now, where I can be free!
where I can be it ain't me.
Alright, 'cos I ain't gonna Hey, Joe Shoot her messin' 'round with another man.
Huh!
And I ain't gonna Ain't no one gonna go?
Hey Joe, said Hey where you gonna...
Goodbye everybody.
Ow!
...go?
Hey, hey Joe, I say, Hey.......................Joe run to now, where you gonna run to shoot my kind will Hey Joe, where my baby in ninety nine and I shot her, you gonna go?
Oh, alright.
Hey Joe he ain't gonna You better run on down!
where you goin' with another man.
Huh!
And I ain't gonna go?
Oh, alright.
Hey Joe, I ain't gonna go?
Joe!
Well, dig it!
Hey Joe you gonna go?
Hey Joe!
Ah, dig it!
Hey Joe, where you goin' to see my own world to live here no more.
That's all their hair, ...
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
There were peasants singing and toilet paper Got fuel to drive.
Keep on rockin' in my eyes.
I saw the street Red, white and I lost my eyes.
I was thinking about what a lie.
Well, I can.
Keep on rockin' in the sun.
Flying Mother Nature's Silver seed to get a garbage can Now she puts the sun.
Flying Mother Nature's Silver seed to school Never get to fall in the night With a baby can I was hoping it was lying in everyone But there's a dream, all in the night With a baby can I dreamed I saw the night With the full moon in the free world, Keep on rockin' in my eyes.
I have some of you baby, can Now she puts the knights In the nineteen seventies.
Look at Mother Nature's Silver seed to keep from running out.
I've seen the sun That was lying in the free world, Keep on rockin' in their shoes But every junkie's like getting high.
I love you, baby, can I have some of you baby, can I have some of you baby, can Keep on rockin' in their shoes But every junkie's like getting high.
I was lying in a dream all in a burned out basement With a baby can I try to forget it, any way I am to them So I sing the nineteen seventies.
Look at Mother Nature on rockin' in the sun.
Flying Mother Nature on rockin' in love, never get to a new home in their shoes But every junkie's like getting high.
I love the road ahead There's a new home in the night With the full moon in the free world, Keep on rockin' in the free world Keep on rockin' in the free world, Keep on rockin' in everyone But every junkie's like a settin' sun.
Well, I dreamed I saw the sun, There were peasants singing and toilet paper Got fuel to fall in love, never go to be cool.
Keep on rockin' in her hand Under an old street light Near a burned out I've seen the free world, Keep on rockin' in the free world.
We got a burned out I've seen the free world, Keep on rockin' in the sun.
Flying Mother Nature on the breeze.
Look at Mother Nature on rockin' in the free world, Keep on rockin' in the night With a baby can I can.
Keep on rockin' in the free world, Keep on rockin' in the free world Keep on rockin' in their shoes But there's a hit She hates her life, and blue People shufflin' their feet People sleepin' in their shoes But every junkie's like Satan, but I dreamed I love the needle and Drummers drumming And the archer split the song because I sing the damage done.
I have some of you don't understand Milk-blood to a new home in the free world Keep on rockin' in the free world.
I dreamed I sing the free world, Keep on rockin' in the free world, Keep on rockin' in my head And colors flying In the run In the yellow haze of light For the free world, Keep on rockin' in the free world.
I watched the people, ...
--- Crippled !
--- A crippled man , he must.
Walking, gazing, the streets Blindly limping, slightly maimed Tired of gazing the big void Sipping on his cane and left him down She took his cane and left him there Lying ‘gainst a leak But he finds this little girl Who strikes him No-one knows him No-one knows who he really is People sitting, staring, laughing At this person, downed and out.
Stumbles just around the big void Sipping on his cheap-ass beer Everyone knows who he needs to take a leak But still, he needs to rot As she hopped across the night he died INSIDE !
--- Crippled !
...
- Antwerp '06, Nijmegen '07, Werchter '07
Olderman is as cool as coolness gets. A respected man, a respected poet.
As for that quotation, there's no need to scramble this heavenward beanstalk:
JIMI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvn25PsPPwk
This is a good video!!
Actually, this was a year after that arrest incident, almost to the day. But you're right in picking up his weariness here. No drugs in Stockholm, at that time of the evening! He was a bit strung out. However, this was only the first set of the night. After the first set, the band scored some leapers. The second set was one of the best they ever played - I have it on audio - but by that time, the TV crew had packed up and gone home.
There are rumours that Gold and Goldstein have the second show on colour film. I wouldn't mind seeing it.
her left hand to her right, before he'd end his eyes cold, hard and grey.
the fall and said nothing.
she thought she should learn to mind when she was hurt her.
the calico bag from their unblemished birth.
slowly.
through the motions.
the street below, she thought she knows this.
she wouldn't.
her She started earlier, when he hit but he thinks he said it's better that way cause the first thing guys do anything with her but she said nothing.
He told her brain no where to do it.
that if he left.
Maybe that’s why she was like.
She lashed out.
She is stubborn that was nice.
as you know it.
he loved her.
but she's not sure.
she is using him always did.she heard once somewhere that he didn't know on public transport there She was soaked in the morning and then nothing.
except the day he finds them all before hoisting up onto her She started to repulse him because she gets there.
She hasn’t spoken to justify.
Finally he would kill them all the right before hoisting up at the blood will never love anyone.
not even herself.
his eyes cold, hard and grey.
the sounds of the sobbing.he held her there.
She lashed out.
She walks up to her.
she gets there.
She missed him.
She is stubborn that doesn't seem to disturb her.
And then it she did was hurt her.
he thinks he wouldn't have to kill them.
they rush around and say i wasn't listening cause the first thing trying not apologise.
She thought she knew she was doing, but that would kill them he would be too much of it.
she will never say those three words to need anyone.
or anything.
when she should learn to hit.
but mostly hers.
he wouldn't have to scrape you know on a society that doesn't seem to him for a while she thought she could put all become about this girl they are a shovel.
she didn't even cry when he makes her smile these days.
She looks at it and her skin crawls.
she just goes through the motions.
the drinking started earlier, when they fuck, it was best she couldn't leave him she will never say those three words to fly.
she was scared.
she was sick of him.
As she stayed sober.
He was sober, so drunk one of the dead.
he could handle.
So when she will never ever love for him.
what he had told him to touch them.
in their own life.
the calico bag from their unblemished birth.
slowly.
through the motions.
the small hill weighed down at the corner, the fall and her skin crawls.
she hasn’t drank since the image.
he loves her.
and then nothing.
except the girls was what he didn't know it.
he was.
what he had to pick.
It was either them all the only thing guys do it.
He didn’t love him.
she will never wanted to her.
she does feel is responsibility.
like them, he sought confirmation from her left her there.
She falters in bed next to him.
but he would find someone told her heart ache.
she wanted to him for a while she did mean it.
She falters in their twenties they happy.
were they filled with he sought confirmation from him.
She was in bed next to himself to come from the fall and the wind hits her.
She thought she didn't want him anywhere near her.
she just hoped she could do anything with him by her purchases.
She thought she just goes through the shower screen, shattering it ached.
In her shoulder.
She lashed out.
She shifts he shuts himself around her he loves her.
and she’d be quiet and her skin crawls.
she knows she stood in denial.
she wondered how she could fall with a shovel.
she never will.
he shuts himself he knew he wouldn't have to need anyone.
or anything.
when he was asleep.
When she said she didn't care.
there is no love for him.
what the tiny people die or are killed.
just exactly how she could do it.
She got so she stayed sober.
He could fall and the morning and he was nice.
as she stood staring down at the roof of the park near her.
she never could handle.
So he’d be in.
when he hit her.
she said she was scared she was talking about the image.
he thinks he was with him by admitting his thing trying not even herself.
his thing trying not apologise.
She thinks she looked through childhoods of her that if he calico bag from him.
She falters in the morning and they are creating.
a position she wondered how much she thought she could at it and bleeding on the otherhand he looked at the buildings as she stood staring down to it, it all fell apart.
While she is using him As she wouldn't.
her focus was in love him.
she didn't want to have to, but that would be too much of the sight of the girls he was like.
She had told her, if he thought she could fall with him by her side.
And then the booze.
But for a shovel.
she thought about what the sound of the dead.
he hit her.
she does feel is responsibility.
like she sometimes was.
the woman said nothing.
she loved, she was.
where he was.
what he wants.
for her, well, there is nothing she wants.
not like them.
if he soaked it.
it'll be fine.
she didn't want him to the quiet again.
She doesn’t see that she drank.
He’d wake up to her.
she will tell the man said he thinks he was when she was doing, but she's not from this bunch of the sobbing.he held her ever ever ever again.
that it ached.
In her And then he couldn’t stay.
She was more than he said that way.
And she hasn’t drank He’d wake up the small hill weighed down at the booze.
But still, she never wanted to turn around like so long as the sun descended behind them.
she thought about getting a position she had worked it came down by her she had told him because she looks into thousands of the dead.
he knew he shuts himself away in blood.
his blood but he didn’t want him to her, she will tell their friends about this girl they were killing themselves.
slowly.
from their unblemished birth.
slowly.
through the shower screen, shattering it She was in love him in love with he sought confirmation from their unblemished birth.
slowly.
through childhoods of skateboarders i was on public transport there is nothing he gets there.
She lashed out.
She thought she looked through childhoods of murdrous intent like she sometimes he thinks that if he soaked it.
it'll be fine.
she was scared.
she wondered when he hit her.
she wondered how much she heads for a while she did was hurt her.
he died right this minute, he hit her.
she gets there.
She doesn’t see that she was awake late at the same time for people who still draw breath.
he said nothing.
He knew what the tiny people she will be alone and unwanted.
at the same time they are creating.
a tattoo in return.
by admitting his blood but he sees nothing.
when he makes her smile he touches her and they rush around her anymore.
He loved her.
He could fall and the drinking started to repulse him by her ever ever become like him always did.she heard sobbing through the thin lizzy.
he thinks he sought confirmation from their unblemished birth.
slowly.
through the shower screen, shattering it was best just to her.
she was scared she was scared of the city drifted up at the shower screen, shattering it she didn't hear the guy gave the bus last sliver of him.
the bus last week coming home he told them if he died quickly.
that she lost her smile these young girls.
he faked every emotion he wants.
for a while she did do it.
He could fall and the small hill weighed down at the pavement with a shovel.
she heard the sounds of him.
the park near the fountain.
she knows she can’t promise him but at least do it.
She falters in bliss.
he broke her composure, she just hoped she wanted to it, it it was her body fills her she told them if only for home.
She is stubborn that makes her left hand to have to the world they are killed.
just exactly how she could do it.
She thinks of the sight of him.
As she should love with him that she looked up to her.
she was scared she was sorry.
he sought confirmation from this bunch of abuse.
slowly.
to do it.
that she was for the tiny people below were they happy.
were killing themselves.
slowly.
from this bunch of the city drifted up to her.
she didn’t have to, but he sees nothing.
when they fuck, it She thought that was on herself.
where she was.
where she was.
where he was.
what she does the conversation turned to give the same time they are a waste of images.
for him.
what she was sober, so long as his revenge on a society that doesn't seem to the world.
So when she ...
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
I've read some really interesting poetry that takes a handful of words, as you've described above... and runs them through mathematical analysis, if it could be called that. Anyway. The result does create a whole new world, for the very deepest thinkers, at least. I will find some of that and put it up tomorrow.
I think for these purposes, it would be good to experiment... but that's a lot of writing just to play with a program. I'm GLAD I don't have that much free time. That could only mean I'd lost my job! If i'd won the lottery, fiddling with words would take very low priority for a while, I reckon.