what you thought was you collapsing like a building was only you rolling forward into the dirt like a huge stone ball, crashing into crushing what big, and the plane where yr ball meets yr dirt is the crushapsing mistaken for falling, turned on its side. a cycle that already happened, yr fingerprints its memory, electric.
the lenses of yr eyes are falling and turning, cut and ground by a ground they only care to touch.
but scraping is a kind of yes and just dont worry abt the dark side of yr big powerful stone ball dropped in acid. acid stripping of the lenses of your eyes is a kind of yes.
the movement of the art, the synth, plug into it, a lead strung through you, being is movement, formed falling, etching a rolling stone ball of human lenses, confront the movement of the art as real slops, you are, slops rising out of the movement of the art like the notes were a swamp and yr slops a spaceship or just-knighted camp swamp space knight miraculously rising. rolling stone ball of slops: etching is a yes.
we stare @ electricity. its no abyss actually. its where tunes live.
when will i visit you.
ok i will continue at least till then, which is what ‘till then’ means.
i will stare till i visit you. i will not blink till i visit you.
history is how we lose stuff
in the abyss – same as ceasing.
, shallow down inside you know this.
we took an animal w us. so sb wd read boox and summarize (in our stead) and denounce from ideal pov (orbit)
10,000 polystyrene bubbles float by.
breathe (em) in.
talk to them, cook for them, make time for them to spend some quality time with them, in.
in your nostrils.
booze: poison as fomo. still cant believe trees. trees! have you seen one?
all can think ofs going on, sgoing.
so the out there, we
agree, had already
collapsed from the height of
its conceit of what it was sure
ly about to become into place,
its, nothing elses, not its either.
and it had no need of disappointment
coz mayb it was that: that,
concrete, and everything.
likewise sun seems
light and life
buts only nuclear fire,
which is why we so jealous.
news just in from those abused.
so there: ppl are history, and why
? we wonder, why are we scars.
magine not living (in) revelation.
skate on crumpling,
leafing back thru yr leaves may well be no help.
more, as such, as consolation.