where have i been, whom
for so many sundered individualities
wrung from own self hide
so to be a diligent digital dandy
giant python heaped in pool of skin,
androgynous desire, plastic fork.
i know youre busy with work and home life
i still want to say things... but also getting really
back into extension
lava of foldbacks into the bay
flanked by soylent-filled pleasurecraft,
tho i of course would put things a little differently.
i loathe them but they,
after much joyful and crazy partying and dancing,
were a historical necessity
i even visited recently
mostly sunny 22 degrees.
but im also getting really badly stuck
in stages of honing,
working on a loon farm (in the broadest sense)
no need to obtain the imprimatur of
gruff meniscus, just
grot me, great -oid
mount self own lovely red parade
on the shinky-ginky man and the desert and the bomb
and if cant get the trolley to roll then
cant i just skip ahead to late work?
webs sprawl over crusty dried socks
dead nature caulked on backyard table
pocket-crushed tissue at base,
holding the dead bee, salt raining
from picture clouds in nylex cavity
on a sub-loop of great
like the fall
like bird of human skin
who bore the desert stage
under heavens of mange
after warm welcome by boris
, the destroyer
photo of turd-shaped meditation hotel sculpture
to be circulated
and there are bushfires.
ill be lurking again,
just need to ride a few stops, on the terror
coz have to buy stock
and some other bullshit to print off if we get the chance
hopefully this time ill get to see you play.
you showed me this years back actually,
appeared before me with a mischievous grin
ready to burn and fly and play the land
with like a little glass punch.
a toxic green biretta veils all for all
propped by narcissistic nostalgia
and caustic pints slime down the coast
acid in eyes?
without it wed have to torture
ppl and bomb hospitals at once.
and there are bushfires.
wipe the blue twine from your lips
but it wont stop coming
up cricket ball throat
it brokers wrong answers
butll be tied
by beat wrangler, like
oussous vines in bare night
heavens of mange,
pledging to hook you in shade,
about a gruff picket
black-orange biretta cloaks the land
and what vacuum here to hold
and what half life
and something of ovular time
, like the sound in tetris when you get a tetris,
but spread over hours, and in those hours
pure extension... so its kind of inevitable...
heaps and heaps of dead nervy time too
only blinder and blacker
we were unshaven in black hoodies and depressed!
, he grunted