before the blessed become locked inside their questionable corners, the excess pressure must be excised. a nuclear porno barely escaping the gates of the ‘Gated Community’. the American diffusement of wretched nature, and the perpetual national night. every head is either bobbing or tilting. confusion or incomprehension. and, the difference is more than Tuesday’s retribution. skeleton still plagued by skin. tripping through the immediate three-shudder window.
1: sip,
2: taste,
3: swallow.
summer is on the make, and the air is made of tiny insects with dirty wings. they want to live in our lungs like ashen memories. every breath is made opaque by a million ill-afforded chest X-rays. every breath, another brick in this city built of haze and resignation. “shall we coalesce, or shall we convalesce?” but, no more questions, for we’ve reached the end of this taxing season.
scryed in the air is a holy, and wholly new animal of uncertainty. etched into the shit-gossamer wings of the insects. a new language of horror spoken by the hot wind. employing the bony trees for its soliloquies. relying on blindness & brittle boughs for its vocabulary. dependent upon sanguine indifference for its eloquence.
“and what of the blessed, when THE MAN INSIDE THE PLANET becomes reticent?”questions are like cockroaches, as the new season thrashes giddily in the afterbirth. clawing from the offal. dislodged and feeble.
all hail the new grey heart!
welcome to the times of threat and wire. follow the chosen path, it flows like leprosy. hostage of science, this neck won’t submit. bruise, crack and creak. this neck won’t bend to such edicts. it’s a compromised world wearing the cloak of ALL-OR-NOTHING. irony would be sweet if only the consensus would comprehend its definition. the lowest common denominator enshrined and paying its lease 7 years in advance. nevermind the blessed, the damned exchange their currency in reality. all smiles and knit brows like an ass-raped clown. sorry for the lack of humor, it’s PH balance is the wrong fucking color.
now is the time for a change of venue, as the shakes and the gagging and the enigmatic chill take up their residence in the bones. throw a stone from your doorstep and you’ll find more than just an open flame to quell the asthmatic convulsions of this titanic winter. cuticles remain over-rated in the quest for warmth. irrelevant in the yard of scrap, so rend the flesh and bathe - just 90 cents a pound, prices are subject to change. the ash was an inch, if not a fucking city block. avoid the intersections where the cameras crouch like birds of carrion, because the comedy of it all is still scientifically regarded as carcinogenic.
Mr. Alabaster, Mr. Fucking Saint, just admit that another coat of crimson is all we need for a slurry of answers to sluice its way down this gully and coagulate into at least one spring entirely autonomous from complete oblivion.
blank forfeit, blank fucking dry veins. new banker of crusty scars. two hours of death from soaked antenna - “TURN IT OFF!” let silences mediate for once. let the collective shudders be the narration. the cuts through the fog. maybe mist is our gauntlet? our hazy trial? who can tell, this far from the precipice? o holy deadlines, what is the favored response? o flashing yellow teeth, the DJ hides your tumors’ shameful meat. a café of meat with a soundtrack to preen for. a philosophy to waste away for. sweep up the eyeliner shavings, and we’ll pencil in a grand phallacy, won’t we?just believe that the only thing separating you from the future is a bright flash of light. a thin commercial film over the mirror.
late spring void, avoiding cracked raconteurs testing the daylight for structural weaknesses. no twitches, just cash; sorry for the inconvenience. the whole world is yours, so please be somewhere else immediately.
like some indifferent honoree, the green comes back into the world. the crowd is shouting obscenities in some language that only social workers understand. some rabble code only certain pamphlets can decipher. the press cameras tilt like confused canines. and, at the end of the broadcast, can this throng still be defined as humanity?
turn us over
the terror is unanimous fashion, like an auburn catastrophe sky. the faces in this crowd have misplaced their masks. only the gutters remain greedy with job security. and, at the end of the broadcast day, can the throng still broker a peace with their souls? or, will détente remain the esprit de corps?
it’s all either a joke or an ordeal. and well, we are sick of ordeals and don’t know any fucking jokes. (save the ones we play on ourselves.)
so the eyes glint welcome across the Formica chasm, but the warmth is a disposable creed. promises under duress. social attenuation and miles & miles of fuzzy pink chain-link. stretching all the way back to sweet sweet then. remaking desire as a third-person smokescreen. contracting the kiss of listlessness. errant from the word PROLIFERATE. so the eyes glint safety across the minefield, over the river and into the pink mist.
biological imperative blinding, like the sun reflected on the scales of a serpent. it’s too late in the day to tell how close the threat is, yet too bright for lurking. a predator adept in conspicuous menace? the findings have been misfiled for at least a million years. sentenced to some dusty passage of apocalyptic architecture.
“so I called John the Revelator, but all I got was his voicemail…” and thus until the end of time, which should be arriving shortly. (escorted by a certain dodgy quartet on horseback.)
on who’s shoulders falls the hilariously futile task of getting humanity to synchronize their watches? stop dancing on the graves long enough for the wallflower Armageddon to be noticed? the poor fucking bastard’s been shuffling in the corner long enough.
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