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Free Cell
When I was little I cut off the heads of many lords
I can’t count on the unlooked for energy that took to rise in me at will, but I’ve strengthened my ability to make a stand firm surface. A steady demeanor will drive conflicted information away, back to the abyss from whence it came, but I’ll be right here the morning after wracked in a private shame too terrible to admit and utterly inconsequential. Any channel can tell. Due process appears in beauty and salacious misgiving at once; an agility borne from creative malice, a benign insecurity. The plain truth: I forget the curtains are open sometimes and the hands wander. That’s why I’m destined for the side exit. Will the false preacher soundproof the walls? The room stares back from its things I spin out and pick a stance for swill’s sake fearing the return of contact and its inevitable pull on my devotions. How do you prepare for what isn’t in your narrow line of sight? Let the grip take hold and fight for this wallowing obeisance. Describe the closest point of deanimation as if only it can save you from emotion’s hideous glare, scuttled on the fade into demi-sleep, lines holding froth Take out the recycling; use the seamless experience to fit any décor, leaping impossibly high while spinning in hyper slo mo, lying shattered like a digitized blue stick person, and after uttering the twisted lines he sank back into their throne He’d swung against and, unbended, changed carriers. Five years ago I put this wheel on this stick Warbling a ditty wishing not to evade her he understands the end of the world, will not waste time feeling your pain, and everything tragic in between is unworthy of comprehension. Cuddle gut staunch in defense. Clams, they’re coming I don’t want love or remorse to follow, I want them in the way, things to burst through, corollaries to be roped and tackled by, surprise, get killed and thank you. Reversible cockpit dragged around by strings, behaving with survivors’ righteousness as informed by the local rag smiling at thee. Gadgets sugar-coated, the limpid diction of crossword plug-ins preying on brain. See hand cover lens, outrage sighs with competitive relief, heir to a calamitous invisibility To quell demands of irrelevance I abandoned fiction and film for the diversions of plow and hearth These soft hands are a lie. There is music everywhere, open containers of booze, shafts of light moving through cityscapes, anxious work health, fate, tributes to friends recently gone The language of rotting imperialist bodies echoes the sixties and its radical smile. Blood for blood off air eventually pulling away. Plane rides don’t generate, garden state brickface, insights, you’re in control. Plastic baby spread your arms in front of the green chalk outline of wrathful happenstance and dig the post-cataclysm report. The image doesn’t mean to conjure a painful memory, but won’t give up doing so freely. Why, for the torrential stink comes near such certitude staving off concision Would your God be bored if everyone was happy? Waiting for someone to bum out of somewhere holding out for come along. Promised mines We’re gonna deny ‘til the end. What. Soft front in a sieve. Along the tramside, freon daze to replenish the storied pressure. You terrorize the moon with glee and I can’t be hard to understand Twisted impulse to describe. Hideous movie trigger. Throw me in a book, freeze it, waste product of a voice staving off the elemental fidget Single incidents have erased escalation from the surface of our fears. What good to be hack -sawed during limo rides? Hide your collateral hooey in identity theft accepting renewal orders. Guilt by proxy in participatory communal investigation Copycat pre-emption, an obscure murder string on the public glide by sight. The victim was a John doughnut pining for leadership in the passenger seat They came at you with love and the harmony of low expectations during off hours. They’ll pay you for your opinion while you bring it live to the transient geometry of an empty news vessel Flummoxed safety drill phases itself out whacked in the chiseled grime, skinned plot hung in a meat locker suckers like me never see, guided through non-recall, the same way they did before attain. Moment of scarce motion. Anyone damaged or killed at the expense of my dignified abrasion never was there. Three zero seven am buzzsaw blues but joyful for an unfocused minute liger-like so huge and uncomfortable in time and space, drops from a plastic straw, gesturing in these old photos as if to say I am telling you something of great significance about the bugs in your hair. Hang a manwich in the air and its mouths bite back Equations filled with sentiment made degradation acceptable for a moment. Dejectable subvices encounter my restless self-shredder. I can quail at varying speeds unbeknownst to the there you are crowd. I only see money when I look at miniature boxes on spread sheets. How common is it for a person to be defined by their weakest moments under public scrutiny? How common is it for those who endure no public scrutiny to revel in their supposed weaknesses. The televised image faking consensus, the signed statement groping tonally for authority. It’s a shame I have to be sick to surround myself with thought in practice. Space begging to be filled the names opinions take. Wolf blitzed by the Big Aristotle. The Fatalist reminding me meaning has its rulers. Perhaps so many look for reassurance in the threat of meaning because they know its being made for them. I can’t be a site alas, kerplunk. Whatever it is it deserves a banner if it can hold our attention. Am I supposed to believe we’re receiving information? Can I defect back to curious skepticism in the moonlight, stone rabbit? Next to the people I know doing it is a box-framed bloody claw. Is she thinking about the descent, the sharpie marked inner child strewn along loose cable cords? Promise to illustrate your point about inhuman language with depthful examples of subzero tenderness and I’ll continue smoking up like a balcony loving to curl into a fist Regurgitation means birdy love. Of each night’s folding shot away from my flagging solo dismount I don’t beg a stay. Fucking order. I could be stepping up the intensity, tearing out some molecules on loan for the primordial boot and chucking the pseudo-leveraged flail for vengeance. This hackneyed analysis of our coat of arms disguised as historic arc of will. Great subjugation termites mugging for the epoch. Would sit in the rectangular room watching instant replay on the square for hours It called for me. Middle class heat from a lowered mound. The promise of an interesting life in the signals. Little arms entering realm of slipshod targeting. And being outraged by the outrage is another victory for torture. Woke up saying things again, knowing it was a set up but unable to call it off. Irrelevance beckons. Certain in-between fates made a break for it were ridden down, so I could turn myself into a dozen shots. Imagine the spooks and their out of date computers. Are we content with a migration back to productivity as measured by holding on tight? Doling out snippets of the next great tectonic shift The Mansquito coils to strike its enemies, leading us to work through a gentle maze of self-assessments I know all the bottled water isn’t fooling anyone but a gleam of stratosphere might soothe the scrum |  |
