On hearing You're in my head resounding arcs and rhythms I can not catch I pushed my hand right into her and still didn't find my own face

Clumsy in my actions I'm coating everything in ash, catching my feet on this insides of my trousers and walking into walls. Its a kind of doll revolution, tear off your own head and I'll bowl you down with it. I'm making you this offer. Bring rhythm back to my words and I'll tie canaries to your shoes. Happiest on her hands its not like she's got her own face on. This is a kind of theft. There are blank pages humming with rhythm. I can feel them but that typing is all wrong. Clattering clattering is not the sound paper wants to hear. It is softer, there are round shapes and line breaks but all I'm arrhythmic not hollow but something quite like it. The shape I am chasing has patterns apparent. I can hear it in my head like an atlas traveled prawn, I told you clownlike this is a kind of theft. Snug bud pickle sprat jug eel. There's no place for the word sound Mexico farther off than Australia. The shape I am chasing has patterns apparent. Line breaks turnip owls fool's loaf and yeah I did my own sums.