- Official website:
The National TrustReally, what makes you sing? Is it the stroke of your heart as your lovely rejoins you in
Whisper to the Trust what it is that makes you sing. They’ll start the parade. Take down the black top to their lemony Jag and come float aboard. As you settle in and make yourself comfy, you hear the pops of the bass drop while a hand smoothes the lambskin under your slippers. All the castanets and light-skinned coffees… You are the King and Queen of their Petting
Parade (Zoo?). It’s always been about you. And you. No harm will fall upon you.
Love can only happen where two are. Trust can only happen where you are. Your taffeta crown is so blue. You’re radiant in the navel orange cloudless clime.
They want you there when they go, honey. With
your arms, legs wrapped ‘round so tight the density drifts sweetly over the antennas of our Emerald Trust city.
Trust creates the cinnamon persuasion. Trust in mirrors because it’s often you.
fashions the pulse of your soul. You pine for Trust in the dung and din of totaled hearts. You’ve always wanted to ditch the rusty sides of waste yourself in your old town. Now wish your Trust a sweet life and commence with the move. With a simple twist of Trust the blinds open and your map’s revealed.
makes it squeezes better. With every (thrust and parry?) octave pop and subterranean thump the cockles strike five it’s five o’clock in your heart and soon every conclusion comes electric, each slight (sticky) caress brings a new fancy. testament to your infinity.
Trust makes us who we are ‹ wide awake, (pony tail) aching, left leg shaking, dying to escape the (s)corn
of and dream ing of never ending stories to better approach beauty. Each knob All knobs agog on twist scripts the whatever future history of what matters. What little we knew before these sounds serves well to what we now have.
Trust has new work for you ‹ BE occupied by sounds. Move your rocks, carry your water. BE the animal never resting. BE the one
not bothered by the invisible half-truths, gossip and jean shorts. Spill your milk and cry joyously arms akimbo in near absolute fertility. and the mysteries of money, sex, magic. Near absolute fertility.
The broth is stirred, ready and sweating.
It’s Alright Trust (We’re only sighing).