Let’s conquer death with abundance.
Evasion foregrounds style and motives.
Prerejection rhymes with the future, which is inside earnest emotion.
Reading Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me head.
We or most of us have a destiny, after all. But it’s after-hours.
To vocalize what’s sunk in, I don’t worry or pierce my ears further. My job is moving the mouse.
It’s time to talk Ladytron, which is a tragedy.
Ladytron is carrying my notes to bounce back to her pals. Come here, Lady, tha s !
I can’t make her work.
Something’s missing. Cabs are scarce at this hour I guess.
I’m in no hurry.
There are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise one’s consciousness. Another is filaments like The tide itemizes all bets.
The frayed honeymoon is third and last, and it’s normative, blushing with its lil song of guts and neurons dead in the bottle. (Drive safely.)
After a honeymoon deflections accrue. There’s the animal that needs you.
Right about here we want some clarity about motives and chance shadows spidered to the satellite reception. (I fucked up our settings.)
I’m craving the show that must go on.
I’m expecting something.
No, you are.
We’re a special team. We’re circumspect and we leave the reno there, the construction seems depressed, pinched, slightly, giving voice to raindrops in long silence we back out of.
What about cleverness and famine?
High table was kind to you while you take loggerheads. What do you say go? You pass over weak words, smack two reasons to try, the new — soon after it’s chèvre oxide with the grit of understatement.
The shower we move.
The faster you die.
Who is climbing this steaming, herded frontier?
You start along those lines dreaming in a wandered-in complex. You’ve been warned to stay inside.
You dream while awake and think it through for the audience that follows you into little squares of hypnotic drumming. In one direction the focus is lost. You grow accustomed, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around then you’re there and not there, of course, but you bring in a harmless grass snake to crawl up the exposed back of a dead friend you’re thinking about. There’s someone else moving forward along the shore’s torn distance in midges, vellums, tiny Gillette letters and smaller decimals. The sun is shining, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of your meaning it but not being tempted. You can exit the dream at any point or add features in a non-European language the second person, the “someone else,” understands. Or you can stay on and have the dream appear in English as an entire practice, one obsessive habit flattened into sponge-festering symmetry. Chills emerge when a third person, a total stranger, raises his corona showing up empty handed, invisible in the wind. You’re giving him head citations. And then you thought, that’s what’s wrong.