I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating gaping yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s a connection to the same eggy lights-out factory, an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up. Inside there’s no agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying in the dark, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dawn to midday, they think: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into aqueous shimmer! One we’ve been party to. Party is one of a few words. It felt so good to close down a wide sector of the critical imagination, ethos, and move nowhere collectively, a function of a huge leftist irony aggregation org.
That misspelling in brief is Fidelio, and from there I can move forward and back to connect times with ideas and people that encompass my naïve expertise.
Ads before news of comfortable, determinant
Males gaining business insight by the numbers are
A given. Someday I’ll have a pomegranate thermostat;
It’s not torture unless it causes organ failure.
No shortcuts. Nope. The perverted best part was
how I occupied your emotional life, the highest in Japan.
The guardian part made this a better world with a splash
of blood on my shirt. It’s for you, Jack.
To be disciplined on our new motion furniture requires drill, “...comfort is a habit of empire.”
Start over. Abruptly
per Chronicles of Goo,
I’m knocking nonprofessionals
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing up!
A he-mind’s pill for breathing is long overdue.
And we’re back on one conjoined vertigo seat, now
reading and writing without an attorney.
“That’s how the paint sails” within taxonomies, overheated,
a mind occupied, just so, musks in the field and so forth.