my backroom friends are starving for a spot of sparkling white lies
pebblers, shoot your fertile, shadowing ravens into the sky. do it slower. everything likes it.
our uncles taught us to pull the soft trigger and a rare fortune was set.
we are always starving for eggs! secret surprise, go slower and the touching dagger will pierce your moans.
the pebbler's dagger and eggs are always on friendly loan,
our sails puff wind, bohemian bedwives and loads of real butter. pebbles! be windy
moreover, let other winds blow you, heck let anything blow you!
memorize every weave, it is necessary for sleep.
pebblers of tomorrow, cry with your lovers and love with your criers. it's all we can do but it's plenty. however, don't forget to cry on the pulpit if you are feeling lost. remember, be worth keeping.
seriously, it's a pebble tongue season.
I light up the pulpit for you blood-pebbles! keep in tow your slower presumptions, they are definitely true! a year can become all or nothing so do not hide beneath the foot of vibration, look at the space doors like you look at wine. listen to the pebblers wine cry, it's just like a light, just like axis, bold as love. this is a good vibration, pick it up and use it later.
time saving is the purpose but the only magic being done by us, involves ignoring time altogether. even expel yourself from its gaudy decoration, if you must.
we light the way;
we, of the pulpit, are dying and willing !
I'm the light
not really. I mean we all could be! that's the pebbler's key. hey nights! we don't wait until tomorrow. we will not be here tomorrow. listen to more bold love and I've said it before but could we all just talk like Richard brautigan…?
the weight of all of this can always be sorted out and re-evaluated with a howling astral week. weaknesses are the pathway to the heart's finest whispers!
so, memorize tongues and tongues and nothing more.
hey, I know it's hard,
not only loving the bedwives
but loving the ringworms and the carpets and even the ribs of the city but make it slower :
it saves the necks of pebblewomen and pebblemen and pebblepeople hey, everyone needs a pulpit to get lost on.
ok im slowing down now like a black aspen;
pebblers, your mother is a porthole and your father is a field. try to start slinging pearls
that are fertile and without lies.
line up at the pulpit and shove petals in all of yer old secret, painful holes;
they will bloom into flowers with new smells. it won't mean a thing… but exactly like a sand castle,
the pebbler's pulpit joins the sea.
hey, nevermind, hold your head to the breast of yer lover and bring forth yer tongue into flames!