now what
follows is speculation.
let it in
like the default
drool of millions
over sftp
this rigorous posturing
along the notes
that are our barrelling
ground, they fall away
behind us and everything,
trilling waft into a tune
over the fissures
of the database.
listen to it in pieces
follow the prompts
on this little sortie
adorned with some tend-
ons from the corpse."
and flip the house spatulas
to send out as swag to reporters
in the final weeks.
in the final weeks,
call me drill:
water, headphones, almost nothing
carried by slack fire,
‘mere’ content
, the thing about,
sopping
bridling
let it in
as you draw level
with the boutique,
its easy open empty time
of death, witnessing nothing
, brought by nobody
four centuries ago.
click away
to the verge
of the drool of millions
in the mouthpiece
of the plastic trumpet
in his plastic mouth
listen to it in pieces
in high dudgeon
as a brace of soldiers,
aides-de-camp, and scouts
ride in at the gallop
from all directions
—hence describing viscous flow.
there was this one time.
fixed, like a match, struck
and cast over the salt pan
of your flat punctured
petrified overinflated
blown-out eye;
parents yell.
stick finger in
for symmetry
tack east
elect madness
else hand disease the
conch for a change and
abscond out the pillow
’s bottom dripping
through the surface
of a laketop you ride
into a waking distance
and, being a destroyer,
theres aught but
waste about you
, so mown of natural form
you cannot see
the sschreeching wind
stick finger in
riecht nach nichts
as was written
or of cheesecake
topped with whipped cream,
sour cream, cream cheese,
custard, quark, buttermilk,
cottage cheese, soft serve,
labneh, kefir, meringue,
gorgonzola, ghee
and schmand
phlwomping down
the río pícaro
stick finger in
sopping
, like all good art,
on soft-lit shipboard
eating poison trash
with the witches
who actually arent
but shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
who actually are
and who already know
the levels of mercury
in deep-sea fish
and ordain sea-level rises
on the other side
of the other planet
their noses buried
in tufts of sun
they see moon and say
moon, their eyes say eyes
who brave death
just to be here
whose words take us
past being, past
quadcore mayor
to haggard gull
domain. a
deputation went to
complain, led by a seaman
named gorf and his sternman
(director of saw II, saw III, saw IV,
saw V, saw VI and saw VII)
what a dragnet
stuffed with steel wool
advancing like suspicion
carried by slack fire
thru city blocks
to enforce the construction
of the unbearable
whose hard-edged stair
wells press you out
into cut vacancy.
bin be in it
else joy stick?
prosthesis?
“use this to jail
all users in their homes”