nightingale tale.

"i think there is a part of me that still loves you" the nightingale says as she plays that old piano, wires held together by the turning twisting dreams of agony. the raccoon washes her hands and sits still, the rot and twisting vines overtake her, she stays silent and washes her hands again in spilled japanese whiskey. the nightingale knows that the raccoon is like all her lovers; her words only reach them in the form and shape of warbled cries. ghostly tiger made of ripped pages of ezra pound and ts elliot stalks out from the night in its wispy form and in skeletal voice echoes "you have never loved anyone but yourself nightingale". ireneo funes plays a picked string instrument, nothing original, nothing original. "july third was my appointed date of death that someone else stepped into" the nightingale sighs, "i offer to you phantom tiger all these pieces of art i have ever made, but i know that they are but ash before you". the tiger does not care, it plays in the woods of love.

poetry is a method of avoiding saying what you mean exactly and yet still saying it in clear tone. "oh hear me oh l-rd, g-d of israel hear me". cut notches into your combat boots wild hound. judge them et judge them yet again. no spell exists to mend a transexual mind.