In the echo of 'co'

The 'po' whisperer enjoys the play of placing microphone in relation to whisper. Ceding to audience the dictate of volume over feedback. "I am the co" she echos in light, lingering on letter before line. Letting knowledge trust its transmission, surfing astral projection from the under-america to un-of-here.

"I don't see shape, yet space of us between sound, I see." Overcoming usual category for co-cate-glory, to re-found, in the meta-verse of the uni-co. Creacionismo is a small god, a living thought embellished with something new. You, who have brought the know past the unico of a single heartbeat, the spirit of diamond and character in obfuscation. Use mirror and incandescent as slivers in the unimagine that tongues a wasted prick.Translate dead past lick, "don't be so witted, child"...there, a stone stuck in vibe, bit by water once decisioned by unhearing.

The circled c of my co-hearers...existented by tender I, over old sun realist...and what did I do while the europeans had all the fun? Sir treeless lets oxygen out of lasso, burp-caught by geometric meutschland, undone by basso profundo..."don't un me again, I am in the stories of timeless spirals, where years have no dates but am or I." The thing that fools itself, is not always the thing it wants.

Juggling verb with hand, to finish off what love would land...if only there were a boy, hysterical with blue mouth, sunned by man. She, lilted warrior, trying an attempted crotch before blue dress shimmered beyond simultaneous tears. "I meant to say feathery voice," trans-flirtation across silent wink, "that's all you need for society's inner crawl." If I tell you something with long sentences, will you let me insert where the endings are, or do you want a warning when I reach the point where you are interested?

Gigadog humped in the backlog, the mime act. "Can ya dig...ya think...a good reader, who can read the phone book and pretend it's a dictionary?" Tiempo Tiempo. Mañana Mañana. Indigenous cycle imparts mountain over skyscrape...absolutely unaware of how we listen—to what we can't understand. Letting the follow be cavern beside click-juggle...the überpoet ends on a note of terrible lunguage.