Everyone laughs - the eighth of twelve standbys simpleton froth in the line of man-made boasting subjects and relegated to humor of busted geese. Everything exists - as our marks on a stage and that’s the punchline.
The secondary collapse of our principals better seen as tact or talk or things that goose you when you least expect it. Obeying the voice that the leaves call cluster or that which draws on the notes of our own organs. As opposed to the flatness of the reach. Our lives with contour, controlled with the possibility of face.
Beaten as an act, or choice, she reveals the first photo as if it were the gallows. Restoring an equal world of essential probabilities. Flush the face, since that belly’s full. Even if we acknowledge that, the essential stays the same. We desire for further functions, for further affective action.
The pleasures of class and their emotional cadences. If we move to the other article, the proliferation of vestibule creates the condition of Action Painting via voice on sand and the waves say slow. The rhythm becomes the same condition of accurate movement made hungry. The desire of things we have yet to experience save for our own ownership of things that take the place of others experience. This is the state of our want.
The pressures of brain and body and us and them and movement and rest and red and blue and hot and light and this and that and Tuesday and Thursday and said and saying and description and what is and production and need and those and these and beauty and the stick look like the neighborhood I grew up in.
Who pays for the food? The portent hunger for hell’d eggs-o-plenty. My stomach destroys what it is presented with and then I shit out the leftovers. These are things you learn about and then forget how you learned it to begin with. You eat the eat of it; the grandeur.
These things feed into each other and then the rest turns to shit. This applies to the cases of the elastic and morally physical. Looking at it’s transformation and finding shape somewhere inside.
Their lips and tongues and desires aren’t straight. They bend against the teeth of it, sharpening the urge for quiver and quake. These are descriptions not penetrated by dissemination. I am a displacement, a weed, but I am not. I am a package.
As a result, the current rising from the happy days means there’s nothing you can do. Vanity driven by mirrored valets. A gentleman can be gentle or a man but will slap you if you fall out of line. These are the manners of northern or navy skies. A body of underground necessities barking and bleating towards the farther turf.
The lamentation for the opening: these holes beg to sing or be stuffed or meaning or closure, but.
These fireflies comment lewdly upon our complimentary trash. I don’t have any paper. He slut up. Disinterest as companion to personality. I sit here and listen to him because he doesn’t go away and I’m not tired yet. Yet he always talks and snores in his sleep rendering me sleepless. He eats pickles in the bathroom, leaving the jar open by the sink until morning. The way all else gloss with politics and hampered by yucky yuck fatcats. They steal babies.
The mordant drip. Find better ways to instruct the dry clean soot. The soot smears bothersome and antlers the worry. This static plays plastic on my troubles at night in the dark in the squirrelly silence and hum. The late show is my fingers holding forth, reaching for something to grab.
Six to one, there’s a blending of benders under my bed and I keep my music making machines there. The rush of the rhythm based in ballads and longing. Yes, there is nothing you can do. Don’t ever forget it.
You wonder to begin in recognition. The sane slenders of sleep. The dramas of dreaming: the empty blank green field surrounded by forest, the bodies of Korean adoptees hanging like loons. The old woman yapping, as you round her again and again - nametags...registration... - and the feel of safety but the condition of horror rounding - families...would love to... - and the warm blankets stinking with sweat as the t-shirt you were in the dream drenches - names...names...names... - and you throw yourself from the bed.
Trying so hard to hamper the hunger. The search for something else. Who brought this honey, this festering sweetness? The distraction, lost, forgotten, shriveled and small. I did that. The elusive illusion of forever.
From this tub, my mouth fills with water. This does not fester the feed. This cozy black opens up and tells this story: the quality of the ramps ebbs over to the other; the misting foothold held strong; the mastering of the jump and the hold held. These are the transmissions from my memory like words in books.
The hose is classic as double-rock. Perceived as their opposites, putting dirt to foot. They rate, carrying their foam in coal. This deep dark place enters with keeping, with the holding held steady, and envisioning the strumpet turned slack. I am not 100% accurate. The impossibility of total regret is hindered by meagre portions. Let me manipulate you into going to the drive-in. We can snack and watch the movies. We can hide our friends in the trunk so they won’t have to pay. I’ll buy the beer to beer. These provisions of the season that score. Generally speaking, people do not appreciate being taken apart. But they love to snack. The artist never blinks, but surely the artist sleeps. The restive desire, albeit human, is a cumulative dickering of the things we all do alike. But, like eating, we have our tastes. Our needs, our fictions, our nightmares of scary fact. I stretched myself across my suffering and called it home (where the unmentionables are not mentioned, only whispered about). The tone of the voice says a lot even when the words do not. If I say, “I am hung-ry for your love” and hold the note hung, it is different from saying “I am hungry for your love”. Seventeen struggles rather than my own. These are the edges of unspeakable desires. The hunger, the hurt, or the maimed mama made mad. Everyone has feelings, and the understanding of this is the essence of a more satisfying experience of your void. There is communion there. Breathing badly, there are all these words. I devour them and once taken, shit them out again and again the shit. While he looks. This albatross comes like an albatross comes, white and feathery - a dainty masculinity that mirrors the madness of being masculine or slight. There is a simpleness to it that renders it up to where the flying things are. The gouge in my mouth. The five pages of a sequential nature. The genial suburban cartoonist living in the city. They get married. As prime and proper as roses on a white table. They are easy to cut out. Fast-food writing gives package to manageable. The rest of the movie will make sense.
If it can be done, it will be done.
