Experimental

Translations

1.

Touch the sky with a broom made from baby bones and lips and the frozen crevices you stupid old man with your parched lips and your curt sentences totally lacking in grace and imagination. You should see what the garden of earthly delights is made out of – it’s made of the trees that grow out of the ashes of burnt cars and foals and veal butter spread over plains and plains of dead horsehair. Bristly meat gets caught in my teeth and I cough and it comes out, spat all over the floor which flushes in time with the blood pulsing through my body every second of the hour. I trip over myself and land headfirst in a bloody gulch surrounded by human clothes and shoes. Body bags and body silk fraught crayon canyon golly you silly total.

2.

Mr. Touch strict cost management discount for children from the old shoreline of music action against Iran knees frozen foolish Kurt delayed more imagination. Since the production of trees meat, oil roasted colts Boulder, cheese plane to a waiting plane, a dead horse. We need people in the garden of the second round of terrestrial meat my tooth pulled Mr. Photo hit counter code sheets and candles, almost everywhere we go back to the mountains, where applicable, pulsating blood to my son, every time our machine. We CZK basket and dress the man in the middle of a bloody dress shoes, I hope. Curtain Curtain cake in half the amount of bag Canon, you fucking fuck.

3.

Contact Mr. careful management of costs, discounts for children and old country action against Iran to prevent freezing late Kurt stupid dream. Tree real meat, frying oil foals Boulder, cheese to be more than a horse, dead. We need people to park your bike meatsculptor pulling teeth and give some light and almost everywhere we go into the mountains, where necessary, to clarify, all my children have a time machine. The eurobaskets and clothes for men with a mean age of hope.

Ben Taylor