The Wax Conspiracy

Come on and kill, just like the first time

Cool breeze in the pants, where the air is warm and moderate, and a head hard against the cleavage of a fresh cut base rock. Breathing drops deep into the appendix, still lingering despite the massive spoils of self-inflicted attempts to remove it with barbs found by the crab grass.

As the sweat trickles down the nose, it's a reminder that perhaps only clean hands should wipe the brow. At least in an attempt to clear the trail and path of foreign agents liable to run a blind into the eyes.

Foreign agents who insist on taking all the land out from underneath in a stupor, clanging and banging their elbows hard up against the trees to bear their luscious fruits. Fruits which, from the poor harvest season, only amount to flowers bearing a slightly venomous after kick.

Cool breeze flows up along the arm. Steady are the nerves, dry is the nose and lined is the sight.

Gentle is the squeeze.

enter the exit for the entrance is killing us all

And we have a winner.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 3 January 2007

The Wax Conspiracy

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