The chorus is plural on that or on whether it’s the end of aging, moods are out. Order in mayhem. Be one with it.
I have a tiny soft view of phenoms and I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one. However soft or firm, the drills at the end of the continent put up more shelves as an aspect of our fiction is told/on. We have no perverse incentive to be mindless of taking chances, since we talked a lot thru allegory, too much, and too often we drank to the madness of consequences and how angry they get and how it makes us crazy for the late poetry of X.
X, that’s the turning point person we hold for show. You want me to reconcile the semiology? Type in “Zigeunerliebe as the hydrangeas split, elegantly disruptive, i.e.”
There is a history to our fortune. You can’t find actuality in a void (plateau) of the will to splat (Zeus’s disguise).
What’s the point? tho, unless we’re in social-politics?
We can feel it, silver-blue lamé (void) but I wasn’t too sure (hydrangeas like it this way) swallowing their methods for months and years going up in ideology and any kind of style. Whatever futures is.
Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of what process could mean. Stipulate minutes and subroutines to withhold and then expose your meanings, and don’t talk with your mouth full of process, disrupting cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits to become the stiff, gnomic atmospheres and accoutrement for following process, and definitions of all this. Take care, and take your time, since to criticize another’s process is dumb without frontiers and off the mark, like gagging on a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to her kitten-infested avoidance rejecting criticism. Keep your smart bomb under wraps, knock the moment down with glances, nods, and inspire small talk while keeping everything under surveillance. You look great together!
Who owns property under socialism? Procedural painters and photorealists, tho binary opposites, figure their lives together, now vision or dash, no longer having to know.
Something more than research suggests this road to fame is treacherous since proceduralists near the top are often both perpetrators and victims of aggressive behavior involving their peers.
I picked this up from the past as you’re a popular person.
You sit languidly on the other side of the room. You’re locked tight.
Painting your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on differences, on crispnesses in whispers in the air.
Your sleep is like a procedural language recognized by NASA.
Mercury is wow! pensive. It’s coming back, back... no..
No to tempos of glyphic turmoil grounded into torpid incision, no to prophase. No!
No contusion of the photorealist spheres.
And I dislike insatiable shine.
A crackdown fabricates its essence, otherwise normal painters on the roof, smug and at the top of their game, which is synchronized, written over from scratch.
I’m saying no to kitsch first. No to grim ball-bearings, no to virulent, callow stances and covers and mongrel humphs. Cut the skull-like crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts.
I have no interest in hull cathodes, none. No ilk of valid colloids — simple? No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, no rose-flavored gum.
Painting you again. Painting double quotes.
How far is it to the autopsy in procedural areas?
Painting formalism —
Pulls you into photorealism, along with lab wonks, murderers and lesser rogues; crazy robots drive into action hulks who overlap a six-year-old offering his sister for a painting that’s overemphatic and vague.
Silent film in three or more faddos attempting authenticity v. insoluble speech in painting, procedural and photorealist, two men painting the firewall. (If they admit they rejoice in tricky intersections they’ll be taking sides.)
Painting voice, the glass house, painting utopian disaster perforated by mirrors, warm-toned, slightly smudged. Beating paintings that pour vodka that makes us cry. A painting with multiple data fields and a disk of stunning extras in malaise supported by a partner grabbing the ring of convoluted painting propaganda, two men in paint.
I told them I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions. Better to get a friend or two to paint you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.
I once went sideswiping among maples and acer pines with no contrivance or opposition. My role was to fill them in, lengthening their insipid menace while coddling the wetlands.
I call this a sex drive.
And it’s an aggressive don’t; don’t do it. If I had a camera with retouch I’d subside in attrition, better to find and weed out pleasure. And if I had notes to video I’d capture the polyptoton of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings I have composing subjectivities I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.
So I have returned to footage of what looks more and more like a suburb with a shore in bad translation blues and stock blacks pitched toward infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.
The wetlands are working it through. Those words we had and didn’t have are the consequences. Learned good is bad. Bad is good. Show up invisible. This unspeakable libido constitutes a knowledge module.
Stutterers Stutter Trying Not To
“Radiance comes in bushels, refreshed
from extract.” (We’ll check what held up
the star date.) In each glance a name
burned, a protracted surfeit before the pup
tent it got shiny against. Smile. Shall we?
This familial gestalt switch empowers
the incriminated city, warm & cold &
further down the moss hill operating
with franking genomes, lattices, industrial
parks at the corner sheeted in quick fire
milled cement, plywood & dust, their
magic buoyancy wiped away.
Private ideas, still hidden to go native, &
of fine voice. “A voice & nothing more.”
Like poll-taking, it’s mostly implemented rhetorical solutions.
Tantalizing in the feasible, wanting nothing more but to jerk the chicken and throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy. Left to systems and devices, dreams and occultism are dull intrigue and romance, equipage of the half-taught or self-illumined. A slice of a childhood domain. Ta ta.
So I liked the primary grades more than my parents. Later, in pilates, something waved breathing up. Blood and my arms apace.
I liked the peach flash and the witless dialectic. I liked your ice-rink smooth skin.
For my doctoral research I followed the top two percent delusion that swells and swells. Despite the cameras, I do prefer free, motorized speech voided and in divers dangers.
I am most impressed by the firelike cream in the center.
I’m still here, the body’s purring put aside. (One dissipated the other.) And one continues to review the lab egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to wipe out ex-traitors and to outpace the apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).
And this is what I didn’t want, as my animator picks up battery fluid
— torchbearing shadows —
No. Government is not that difficult. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. Lethal-to-pallid fellows lockstep for the scent of Labrador tea. And the gyrostats will to escape!
I’m always wrong to prolong my appeal.
Are you sitting on the mat while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive for eagerness to do what we were afraid to be?
The lap pool is cloven by ice. Let’s curl up
& be seen at the sonic deep end, & keep everything as it is,
media-simple on the corner of statue & space.
& since it’s Pet Corps, we can bend the rules for statue-equity, bob
for rare & boundless foreign minerals, & see trees of green
to the tune of spillovers w/ dogs taking a piss tracking flutes in drizzle,