The Professional Weed Lovers





Lazed around moped with boney with slurred words get up and gloopy brightness of colour I could see him as, his clothes, his bed sheets, the titles of an E Four Horsemen book sticking out the edge and stuck up near all these dvds. Turning around with a fake glass remember thinking (this is when you quote your normal body language said, what's going on in head) turning around being like this is my other baby beug this is how good it is, it's pretty clean too. fuck oath true loook breee yerp check that" .. As I slouch.. but the noises, like it's too hot. Why's it too hot? Like it.. As if it does a... like it would do... or a simple No way it's going like that for me, so it pokes them on the cusp of deathful disappointment of feeling the very stream of a sweatlet drop at the last bridge to cross before you go beyond that creasant moon underneath strolling through a forest of frollocking tips like flickering snakes so fierce and like thick beige wallframe paint without our doors slippery we can slither and stretch as tree top ends, like angry cats, stretching cats, floppy ears flapping, writing without your glasses, thinking of excuses to say "nah or no thank-you", how lethargic it would be like sliding down the doona slagging down the edge of the bed. You are the spit survivor, and that is your waterslide, that's where you've chosen to sling into your machine life of direction, and family, family aspects, how long until you set off your own short temper and you realise how it's the switch that's been flicked to up-spicy - you're a type of groove you can't walk over away from suffocating from living in yonder, so you scurry along but as the shadows are always drunk and heaving down highways we drive and walk through this and these are monsters, with soft paws we shake are forgiving disciples that meant to be evil you wiggle into a salute to the What you rely on, and so to anyone, that's emptiness.

We trust this drug, we see through hazed eyes profound colour and pattern compare to the downwards slack hanging or is the floor holding it's stool table bed side fable closer does it pull closer to the ground?    Does this mean we're asking if gravity is the 'second; most natural thing to after us as human-beings? What happens if we believed in gravity? Love and livelihood will float like it's successful and things would be so very light, would the dire crave of reaching out for something in front of any attraction? Can we believe in ourselves as trekkers of Love, one's with palms out and sliding on their heels for a sense of companionship they

the way he held bong. remind me of painting of his room.. shame i won't recall this as wholesome.

Keep the day trust sweat, exer-work.


Pe