Let us also consider her gait, posture, and habit, in which is the vanity of vanity's,
but is she not as lovely as the touch of the salt?
The Princess Hector, after everyone was seated for dinner,
the roast squad had just been caught, her filling garments drew all eyes,
and then, all stare, as the Princess slipped swan bones into her sleeves.
Suddenly, the Princess cast eyes swans from her sleeves.
The swans, having only just been swan bones,
hawked and flew out the open window.
Oh, yeah, they were good to sat, like those are their songs.
They ought to be anything other than a chance to be alive.
They can rely blindly on life, but they cannot make swans out of swan bones.
Oh, what kind of skills do women like that have,
and why can't I be a woman like that woman is?
But then she came back to the front of her chamber,
but who, trust the woman who inspires magic,
especially a captured Princess who used to be a toad,
especially a captured woman with no toward lovely eyes,
who was standing in her eyes.
And as the kids were about to come,
remember when you were with the toad of Princess,
and you ran around with the grass,
squeezing under your eyes between princesses,
and you fed grasshoppers to the spiders and their webs.
Then, at some point, everyone began to say,
I'm not going to let you hurt you.
No man will tell you otherwise,
this entry is a lie that could.
I'd seen them dancing, trampling the ground,
walking up the hill in moonlight, then walking now.
I'd be waiting for you on one of your feet,
and I'd see the house full of chicken nuggets.
I'd be waiting for you on one of your feet,
for your home to rise as sunset, but you have not grown.
I hear an hour in my home, but speaking to Princesses
and you're trying to sell me back here,
or I'll hear you breathe as rice and romantic.
Yes and no, won't go.
I'd be waiting for you on one of your feet,
The candle glared as I poured over texts.
I identified flowers, many of them extinct.
At night, after I had cooked dinner and cleaned up for my uncles and mothers, I would sneak out,
jumping across road, down the bag into the honey-suckled bushes in the empty lot.
The tendency to narrate bodies is the same as the will to power.
How beautiful you are!
I'm hungry. Listen, Hela.
It's hard to keep on rigged with my lovel downers wanting no yawning and a silent howl.
There is no such thing as women, as a category, as a group, or an actuality.
Genderist performity. By destabilizing the performative iterations of gender, we create the only political layout
of the binary gender structure that oppresses us all.
You stung a den of light with natural drops.
Watch more crawling patterns falling on these loud walls.
Boring bones are teacups after noon in the other lawn.
Tragical body, made with glorious and grand mysteries.
Conception of the self-doubt from a no less than 90s.
Tragical body, made with glorious and grand mysteries.
Tragical body, made with glorious and grand mysteries.
Shovel stitch-making. Turning crotchless bodies into islands. Beneath precipitating clouds of bio-mechanic dirtiness.
At the base of your skull is a growing tumor. You've only our bodies had a sense of humor.
So in fact, at worst in life, that's who's open to the night.
Pulling all the loves, but against the rules of the military.
Heavy-sing on the roots, how on the prison of the sea.
Something overfallen, all swore, swore the trees.
We call it pot, a black word. Open bubbles rise firm.
Terrible seas are bursting with waves. In a horrible untold resort.
I know a few of the difficulty in sleeping. The naturalized constructs of sex and gender.
Preordaining performative choices. But listen and you won't hear me understand the case of voices.
Tragical body, made with glorious and grand mysteries.
Conception of the self as warm-up, no less than a disease.
Freedom, freedom, freedom.
The subject is opaque. You are what others say.
Freedom, freedom, freedom.
Social fires are sweeping our lungs. Controls are breathing and shaking our tongue.
Pyros to explode with ingredients combined intentionally.
I know you see, I mean, why in the real world do you have small powers?
Oh my God, it's a wrong cross. I know sex, dare we mention it?
Are these things weapons?
Granny bombs running by, get placed into nothingness.
Like the yeasty stumps of fantastic arms.
Turning head flares into dryness.
And turning whole rough into torches.
Tragical body, made with glorious and grand mysteries.
Conception of the self as warm-up, no less than a disease.
Four lives unstruck in a charge.
I buy their protection.
A unity of protection.
I forget if there was no play on words or representative action.
The design is to combine.
To combine.
It's the bears alone.
Alone.
To be in the body is to be exposed to social crap and porn.
To be in the body is to surrender to their idea of the norm.
I have no visionary.
But I have hit my knees.
Or for the metaphor, I'm weak or weak.
At the right.
At the wrong end.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
Over the years.
God, I hate being a woman.
He said, after we came to the US for Germany, this gave the bad times.
Listen, the world demands that knowledge of digestion.
Los Angeles is like a house structure.
Not its structure, as the spiny trolls have long been drawn on bell and canvas.
With great built ends like the crimson sucked fish.
Fish, kiss me.
Oh, Liar, now that we'll walk you by the little ladder.
Yes, oh, yours is like a ladder.
Key.
Uh, bring the light on. Bring it on.
What do you have, a lunch?
There's some, sauerkraut.
Hot cake.
What is this all?
Beer and coffee.
Well, I have a good thing. Right here, overlooking Los Angeles.
About what you were saying.
Yes, right. I mean, the Godland called girl of actual process.
I remember that summer when I experimented alone.
I was so beautiful.
She was so beautiful then.
Breathing in, breathing out.
It's too bad you can't act again, lady, but you are a good woman.
The person's woman.
Maternal is not a thing to prepare.
Self-sacrificial is not a thing to fire.
Self-security without narcissism.
We can eliminate the work of slogging through our mess.
With yokes, buckets of solid for you or food.
It's very nice to be carrying rocks and big necks.
This is where there's no delicate search.
I can no more when lips fall back.
I salt up my whole gut until I die.
Tell you that I would like to make a final note
that I do have a lesson to find the size of my hunger.
Until my stomach is out of loaded before me.
No more than a voyeur, cash filled high policies.
Spray clean and tight at all.
Until this institution with the arts of singing
and the fence that you feel the same,
accepted my sterilized and same hands.
I called my little sister and called Kate.
And she's the force of that cow.
Then her turn of prayer is far other boldier ways
to fill her sand.
I should write about the cow.
The sign just put a plexiglass plate in her sign
so they can see her digestion.
But she with the plexiglass plate
got nothing but a stitch with black surgical thread
into the living hide.
Saw the tea inside her starvation.
Fought the window with her hot breath.
But I fought for the last time.
She rolled her mattress on the ground.
Until this institution, this oyster of love,
swallowed me feet first,
and exposed me in my filthy habits
to men with rubber gloves,
proved me to be merely a wine master.
Tangled in a bad habit,
along with foamy grass,
that I guess the splashy red wall
of nauseous ignorance.
Praising at the swans I want to do.
Christ, now there is God.
Oh, please, oh God,
please, please, please,
close your reach.
It's full of red from childhood.
The crowd with a single leg fall.
Pass me my pipe.
Bertie, my baby, don't smoke so much tobacco.
Just sit there and think.
Is that possible?
I mean, really?
Can a woman just sit there and think?
You never see an experience.
Hmm, we're going to sound interesting.
I wonder what they're thinking about.
Henry Miller, perhaps?
Elaine, I know you.
Women do not separate emotional desire
from physical arousal.
I want a man who travels from town to town.
I want a superstitious business,
more like the skin body of the dog in the robe.
The painter in his ideas
are running around mountains where his queer greats lie
across all the wet skin.
You want his shadow on the curtain
as he folds it slowly aside.
She's a lot of white guys
lying together like swans.
We're too poor and rich for our protest.
As we stand for the poor,
we're going to escape without the scrappable plight.
We're going to fall to my nose
the way I bite you like a robber costume.
You want a man like Arthur Miller
with his black eyebrows
and lips of our black classes
raising some pride in your impressive advances.
We touch your body like we touch your bone.
We know you're cubic and us.
We know you hide your red crayons
ready to hide all of them on the floor.
I was going to use that knife
on Arthur Miller
and a paint coin in my playground.
A woman screamed at me about a murder.
The strength of my dissonance
I suppose in retrospect,
it could have been spirit acting.
Anyway, I now confuse my lovers
with political cartoons.
Overall,
I think of you.
You want a man like
Pablo Picasso.
I'm saying,
the way you draw the ball in the air
with a single thin match
makes you look two-way to once-missing lifestyle.
You want the funky-naked grind
in this huge scum
and the stuff that is made in yellow fingernails.
You want to stand on the drop floor
to see your screaming in you that's dead.
And if all I'm all in is grippy with salty oil.
In the first case of magic into your arms
makes you beg to use your life to raise
and train them to burp that soft and white
on the backs of your hands.
You don't spend too much time arguing about
lost animals, a better person and food.
What did you expect
when you flashed your robe
and lit your teeth at us?
I like the idea you have of me.
It's better by grabbing the idea I have of myself.
No, it's just come to see me, I experiment all of it.
What's the face of black eyes?
What shiny sharp red ink?
For hours I drag the flag on the stage.
Ah!
Many may not pin you down the sexual
character of women
and friends and tidy information.
A version is trust pain, a void ends in distress.
Black are the physical response, shame and sickness.
Help!
What am I?
Please, someone tell me quick, what am I?
Hey, Lane!
Quit rolling around in the grass and clean up this mess.
I'm getting old.
I'm distracted and confused.
I'm going insane.
You are not.
I am.
You're going out of your mind you are.
But out of your mind is no offroading.
I'm not too worried about you all, girl.
And if I'm not, why should you be?
My doppelganger, 1943, right?
I have become an uber man reenacted.
Aware of what I'm able to move, per se, without instruction.
Also, I can no longer reload my memories or emotion.
I have become a barrel, rolling down a rain slick hill.
In 1953, a scholar of Sorbonne-Ener's data proves
named Robert Graves will write that every few centuries
a woman of public genius appears who may be distinguished
by pre, clear, secondary signs, learning, beauty and loneliness.
The case of a woman who orders a thousand times worse
than that of a male point for she herself is the muse.
But God has found external power to guide her more concrete.
If she strays even a finger's breath
from the path of divine instinct,
she must take by herself vengeance.
That's odd.
Turkey highways, we were under divine light.
Oh, man, it's now when there came time.
She startled the poor man, rode him down the galleyways,
fed him on peeped jerky with magazine.
The lady passed on.
When the hand go on the rain,
and the search of God is rightfully met.
Oh, women have nothing.
Pass on.
But an empty body's desperate nest.
Pass on.
I don't care if there's no destination.
There's no telling who so what dumping is.
What we learn from hell is only that we're ventured.
Heavy shovels for maim and rubble
for going to the night alone.
Women aren't personal.
Their cells are constructed by contact with people
and so they have a home alone.
At the moment of this journey,
I feel like I'm the one to fight about my motherhood.
And it's the best to stare,
to sing her a flag,
to put them out of every cell I down the galleyways.
Yet, I am the pertinence,
and they are the numerous interchangeable,
sexual beings.
And my whisper is done.
This old-level sexual harassment keeps us in our places.
If we could, I know we would all exchange our faces.
Right?
Come on, tonight's us as long as we choose them, right?
As long as we don't step in or out of a certain kind of light.
Listen, when I was young, I did not desire to love her.
But I made her a man.
He wasn't shipping.
Brett was not in shipping.
I'm talking about my mercy.
I'm talking about my love.
If you belong to soft-quality deep depressions, I know.
I'm not in a deep depression.
I'm consumed by an internal passion.
You hate me. I don't hate you.
But I want you to admit that I'm not a man.
Although I've been playing that for quite a time, who has it?
I'm not ready to fit into the category roots at all.
I'm not a man. I'm a woman.
Hello.
Do you remember the time you heard the violins?
What?
Yeah, you dragged me out of bed because you heard a violin playing somewhere in the house.
A ghost, you said.
Violinist.
Listen, I have...
Spit it out.
Witness.
Witness.
Diogenic sound.
What?
Non-diogenic sound?
Which is real?
Which is not real?
I don't remember any of this. You're making it up.
You made me search all over the house and in the dark classes underneath the drip sink.
I never...
We've never even lived together.
Then, there was a sound.
The ghost, violinist, you cried.
You were thronging and laughing.
So is it?
If it exists, it was a train.
A fucking train!
Dear Helen Leaves, the questions step up in my head like quicker baskets.
Why can't you be what I want you to be?
Your seventh mother visited me in the Abbey three days ago,
and first I thought she was you.
She told me that you've fallen in with an actress,
a certain Colleen Michael.
I can only warn you against other women.
They only want to eat your organs like trash.
Are you surprised?
I love you.
I love you.
So how are you doing these things?
Well, I really do behave as I see fit for a period of time.
I know I can hang on to the impetus and the anger that drives me,
but I'm sure it will all go foggy again.
I just wish I could stay a year.
A year?
I'm so good at it, the women.
You can't hold on to it.
Just a test.
Am I talking too much about myself?
Well, see, I feel it. Yes, you are.
As another woman, I judge you as harshly as I judge myself,
and you will never meet my standards.
That's what I was afraid of.
But listen.
Let's get a second.
What is it?
I have decided to write your experiment.
An experiment in age.
Dear age, I have found your undergarments in my suitcase.
Now how do they get there?
I must have packed them when you ran away.
I have come to the conclusion that everything is your fault.
Do you want them back?
If so, send me your current address.
If not, please send me your current address.
It's based on a dream.
Oh, it's very short.
It is about the construction of the self itself,
and the contrast between masculine ideas of the self
as a separated soul and those of a woman as a soul,
as a self flowing off into many different selves,
into many directions.
Look, they found her!
I can't, I'm frozen.
I'm a French woman.
Listen, my boy, she's like hot leather now.
We conduct heat like copper.
Dear four, please let me say hello.
We're told that it's a low chance that she's been spooked.
The island lays up a frosty window,
tacky blow vans, and the boss is trying to rebuild you from it.
Look at this dust and woolen dress.
She's watching through the room, winding her spine with a rich and pony
to the relative room with the love ceiling and the exhaust pipe
and the exhausted body.
Oh, she's got the wind and let me try to move the half the wheel
to slip up just so clear.
The glass finds room and can't act the new.
The wind will not be conferred.
I can't fully admire him.
Who knew when they slip and shine,
like the night is silent, young,
still now treated or dead.
Dear, let me translate for those of you
with accents in the head,
I think you'll hear more.
Oh, strange, I'm so stupid once.
What do you think you are?
He says he can't bring me in.
She's ever wonder,
who's you call best, oh, I thought.
The sun above,
there are four of that,
make all of that.
And to look, the splint recalls
and tin allows our distinction.
The tent in pink has some wood
with an unlatched idea door.
Who knew when they slip and shine,
like the barrel.
Remind me of his feet
that were as fair as glass.
The front door cracked open
with the weight of the light.
And I said the great day,
small water sees our waves
above you.
And real vision,
welling to the middle of my heavy feet.
And knowing the day,
well, for all things symbolic,
AU is gold,
and the brunt, and neither belong
to the guru when they slip and shine.
That's what God gave me for,
knowing I couldn't tell the difference.
View four of the winged witch,
now I'm on a scroll
to bring relief from my eyes,
the graying kind of the movement.
Oh, I swallow the flair full of difference,
but let me live now, spare me.
February.
February.
Guru with his life been shining,
his body marks like a sturdy lamp,
beast and worthy,
skeletal on his blue skin,
hanging in tar paper curtains,
and the hollow of his friend Gunn,
where I once slept,
and can still smell it with hatchet,
chisel,
swiss army knife part of us.
I don't want any war,
I don't want no safety,
war, I don't want to pay,
war for my life is over!
I don't want my pen and cards.
I don't want to pay for the power
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I want to be in my home land, but not over my mother is, not so weak in the snow, like any other man who's had food for him.
But I'd rather be in my room to spring into the wrinkled arm of a construction.
Sir, please, I like her ease, I'm a pilot of you.
He nods, he packs her down, and she alights from the wood and weep herself.
Please, please, please, please, now I'm far, far from the room, and things like that shine in.
If only we could produce your experiment.
If only we had some meats.
We are the index.
What's left, what something is gone?
Did you learn that from Adler?
No, on my own.
I mean it, too, really?
Words, and something was the right answer.
Do you still have your letters?
Yes.
Do you think these are worth anything?
Oh, I can sell them.
We're dying, you know.
I know.
I can't feel my hands.
I see the mirror.
What's that?
I have a voice successfully reached in the chart.
I,
I,
I am sick of myself!
Elaine! We've done it!
Why?
We are a valued part of society!
Look at this damn thing!
You're out of your way!
Oh, I'm out of the rules!
Oh, don't think too hard, Elaine!
Just be grateful that you're an issue.
Yeah, let's play cards.
This is phallic.
Everything's so phallic.
I still feel lonely.
Hello, Ease.
Sometimes after you're gone,
I lick the blood of my sword.
Is that disgusting?
Fashion makes power.
I bought myself a ring.
If there's a movie about me, let's make one.
Come on, come on.
Ease!
Do you remember this vision when we were fighting?
And every time that we're here,
we forget that we've been here before.
But the creatures that we're fighting remember,
and they keep getting stronger,
adapting to our methods
and new to our tactics.
Getting to know us, looking into our eyes.
And now, who has the advantage?
Who has the advantage, Ease?
Wait.
Wait, what's that smell?
Dogma.
Laughter.
Ease.
Let me use your dress.
Just once.
That might add life.
Oh, Lord!
Ease.
Come on, Ease.
Come on, Ease.
Come on.
Hello, Ease.
I...
Ratchet, I...
have ruined you.
And have been the cause of all your misfortune.
How dangerous it is for a brave man
to suffer himself to be moved by our sex.
You ought, from his infancy,
to be inured to insensibility part against all our charms.
Harkin, my son, said formerly the wisest of men,
attend and keep my instruction.
If a woman, by her looks, endeavour to corrupt me,
permit not thyself to be overcome by a false inclination.
Reject the poison that she offers
and take not the paths she directs.
Her house is the gate of death and destruction.
I have long examined things,
and have found that death is less dangerous than femininity.
It is the shipwreck of liberty,
of fatal snare for which it is impossible
to ever be set free.
It wasn't woman.
It was the kind of first man
from the glorious position in which heaven had placed him.
She who was created to partake of his happiness
was the sole cause of his ruin
and that same evil spirit.
I mean, how always an insurgency
can bring out a woman.
I have inherited a rage
which cannot be expressed or shared community.
It can only be applied to my personal experiences.
One, seen as a result of incidents
or events in my own life and not as a larger problem.
And two, it can only be dealt with
at a personal, private level.
Public rage over the injustices
and unfairness suffered as a woman
is not revival or acceptable
only private rage remains.
And so I packed my little bag.
It, a pack of receipts,
tarot cards, scissors,
and skid pen.
I've packed my little heart
so full of salt and clay
that it would stay fresh.
Wherever.
I've packed my little mouth
full of quotes by wise men and knowledgeable men
and I will unpack them again when I need them.
I've packed my little hands,
a pen and a cube of sugar in each
and in my stomach I've packed
just the results of my experiments
in a tin of breakfast.
How then I wonder
why does this world not belong to me?
Why not to me?
Why am I not the key girl of my space
and why should I be?
Who are these masters
with whips and hatchets
who ride over the frozen ground
and built where mother lives and money burns
that turn ourselves against ourselves?
Please let our own cross
we grow our own bodies over the wall.
Please let our faces again and again
with a sharp look last.
For even overflows my crack jar,
my paper hat, my red lips,
the lost of my space ear,
hey, constant shulling out,
standing with my beguiled.
There's also a story of a man whose wife
was drowned in a river
who, when he went searching for the body
to take it out of the water, walked up the stream.
When he was asked why, since heavy bodies do not rise or fall,
he searched against the current of the river.
He replied, when that woman was alive
she always goes in word and deed
when in contrary to my commands.
Therefore I am searching in the contrary direction
in case even now she is dead
she preserves her contrary disposition.
Applause
Applause
