Focusing here. Habitual tension, conflicts inside I'd say. Letting the
springs of conflicts twang about, focusing on the spring of inspringation.
The irrigating spring of the vernal spires. The litigating spling of
sapling spires. Of lapwing fliers.
    Dotty doughy doubts in endless ins and outs, and me running
about with outstretched nets. The world must be shattered to pieces in
order to piece together the pie-eyed wonder of dry-eyed blunders. Trivial
pursuit wedges spine together in sedges, in hedges of blinking banking
shanks.
    The catechisms of catercorner duties, durable endurances race
through your furnace faces. Crashing, they knotting get stuck in nutty
tar and splorch down, blinking. The coupling fliers whirl and too slow
inundated with bearing down blackmurk. Molasses catches and glues
all the funfairies of spring.
    Now then. What moths get stuck in the springs of machineries?
Chinese eateries? The mothing inspiration surges forth from a hundred
holes, the fresh lightwater blowling away all the mewling, puking
fuckditty duties. Kundalini inspiring comes loving, inspiring. Focused
fingers and eyes hit dingers on zingerblank pages — all the girls
grinning strip down. Downshifting to stop the car and look about in new
erections.
    New directions in nude erections? The magnetic needlecock,
pointing knorth, dialing phones, leaping into bad mittens, the shuttling
cocks, their valvecocks crowing roosting in gushy worm mornings down
on the nightcrawler farm.