i.
Never having seen sharper, more still. The blade elicits a
reaction twice told around the bend. Blind with effusion and half step.
ii.
Staring at semen as such, as such, so much as to begin to
believe in life again, again. A lot of what gave way to the merry go round. Of
the argument in your hands, against glass, even lately. Too busy to have
already gone away, the bed burps away.
iii.
I count the world as towels against the door, stop. I’m out
to mook similar the dollars as currency thrown to the current, even against the
wind. Ever to toast up everything, I. A fall they call it, the matrix of every
more potatoes please. Every come up more the match, the very light of it,
almost. The scraps mean stump, low morrow, tomorrow, maybe, yes.
iv,
The paler sights search, sorch, the sunlight horizon.
Screeching children on more than two wheels call out when beginning to fall and
laugh when they catch themselves. Our water, our order, collapsed into an order
of eight. Collapsed yet into a efficient order of hate, of loathing of the body
that betrays us. The spell is a shower giving off rocks, pretending to
understand and believe and make us feel better about our inability to love the
one who hates and writes about our hate and loves, even still.
v.
We count and count, as if numbers were all that kept us
alive. I call that building, whistling. The difference between 500 and 200 is a
near death upon us, weighing more. The cat upon the building is pushing, left
with nothing but a faint heartbeat and farewell. And on and on we go, no one
knows, wherever we go. I am the flowering of semblance, the cupid in the cup,
cherished by grandmothers and few others. Telling them all now, the store, even
know they will never believe it. They continue their own on, wrapped as a
present, numbered by such to be given in the strict order of order as is
presently assumed. Always assume.
vi.
The softer sights, united. A toy boat floats across the
pond, pondering the fact of being a boat at all. The summer is foaming up to be
a marine. Lead spreads. Rocks can still bend, between. A hate like a rock can
still be covered in its enemies. See? our enemies can still see and by seeing
see through to the part where you cannot see. The bear of the burder overcome
by the burden of the silence between us. A church, I tell my beans, in house
and home. In his nose I torched the hose that overtook his book and called it home.
Spell that for the Feemans. Fine wines should always shoulder furthermouth the
further. a kind of fast that forgets the sepia toned cup of mustard, still left
un-paid for, on the counter with no one to claim it or take the credit.
vii.
Always dulled, ever more still. Feathered effusion spoken as
boast. Sharp upon the blister and stand still. I count the world as windows
against the world go. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on
and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and
on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and
on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On
and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on
and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on.
On and on and on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on. On and on and
on and on and on. On and on and on and on and on.On and on and on and on and on, like whites as tendered as
the furthermore of the furthest that our more can take us.
