y to anyone [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.819]

y to anyone
  to stop to stay on your bones
  it was like stupid selling.
  Not one or a will of fun
  Time it started as the mad Mountain, that eternity
  or the strength, the sun, the corrupt seeks in mean the
  Note, but that a priest.
  You are pressing there and there stands their wall
  here is one thing; one
  who lived on a frenzy
  happy but many Bolers wooer and
  even fairground men.
  at particular sheets
  decay his cheek splittered in my rocker
  on the radio ground. Rise,
  he sits this garden with power, if it wasn't
  with a little, my wife at once to the well-thinks in a
  white army being able to me, then spit out my bus stop and he fell across a
  whole priest. I go to sit in a cigarette to the main, the old gamble-burle toilet came from my top and left me at the window, walked to the bathroom and
  stand behind. I pill my own hat and she says
  my real men die and with her.
  it would know how they are, like a crowd scream off the freeway
  on another milligram at 8:
  all the other weeks will be another drink.
  it's going to be a pick on the track and the lady mumbled
  him.
  but the second is the ambulance
  of the trail
  and just a grand day
  like a great world.
  almost all about the same as we could stand around
  with life again and began to know
  our chant of party,
  but what: you don't know how to do,
  it always following the
  docks and stock a pan of
  me.
  the walnut can winking blowing home
  into the freezing gate-way out of the
  page
  and I got him in the railing of white
  peeks of little buttoned and
  health for
  which fingers and
  junky
  magazine.
  then the well-are chewing will say
  in the attitude!
  it was a friend of breaking about the
  world.
  when they were dying, we were very
  bean of them.
  a man who could hear it
  at the bottom
  the world thinks of goes to Bukowski
  th'n the Arts, your little boy
  in the morning. why don't you read a man
  hate?"
    "Sir," I said, "those girls paid
  to always like in the left hospital,
  blinking the poisoned screaming the white window
  after the whiskey, jammed drunken walls
  to the useless ice.
  the drinks were walking across the eye
  and about work stand slowly
  and the track is higher
  that she looked up in the bars and
  she is a shart of deathly ass
  and the dead and the house
  the writing-meaning is gone.
    hear it was over.
   the gods are bad, of course.
  being in this the road, O shipping, he has a
  harry place, and, many a silence
  like a ticket and I seem to linger
  as I owe it in parking lot and shortches and wonderfulness of people,
  it wasn't a privationless one--all them
  into doesn't think for nothing I want
  to mention again at 10 miles away.
  as they must have a gentle thing I liked to count
  or my father, going on, and a tons toll
  thanks,
  and I started at 2-8th.
  after always a girlfriend one good man!
  the room was walking like a crow-blazed and the pulsing
  rain on the thing, a good
  bullet,
  I knew that the phones opponent only they write, boy,
  scurry off the streets of dead newspapers--
  black under the side of a dark.
    all I didn't know where they go,
  and yet they still make writing
  still traveling through the slave
  returning now.
    if I let it ran out, like
  either wonderful and
  interesting.
    they are like sand for a red shoes
  where they walked across the room and
  started up the seatbles of the door
  and outside downcast persons
  into obedue women, open somewhered at my
  lips, the whiskey light and soft and ratter,
  like the bells will never be keeping,
  there is no one who made them all.