Free Cell
When I was little I cut off the heads of many lords
I can't count on the unlooked for energy that took
to rise in me at will, but I've strengthened my ability
to make a stand firm surface. A steady demeanor
will drive conflicted information away, back to
the abyss from whence it came, but I'll be right
here the morning after wracked in a private shame
too terrible to admit and utterly inconsequential.
Any channel can tell. Due process appears in beauty
and salacious misgiving at once; an agility borne
from creative malice, a benign insecurity. The plain
truth: I forget the curtains are open sometimes
and the hands wander. That's why I'm destined for
the side exit. Will the false preacher soundproof
the walls? The room stares back from its things
I spin out and pick a stance for swill's sake fearing
the return of contact and its inevitable pull on my
devotions. How do you prepare for what isn't in
your narrow line of sight? Let the grip take hold
and fight for this wallowing obeisance. Describe
the closest point of deanimation as if only it can
save you from emotion's hideous glare, scuttled
on the fade into demi-sleep, lines holding froth
Take out the recycling; use the seamless experience
to fit any décor, leaping impossibly high while
spinning in hyper slo mo, lying shattered like
a digitized blue stick person, and after uttering
the twisted lines he sank back into their throne
He'd swung against and, unbended, changed
carriers. Five years ago I put this wheel on this stick
Warbling a ditty wishing not to evade her
he understands the end of the world, will not waste
time feeling your pain, and everything tragic
in between is unworthy of comprehension. Cuddle
gut staunch in defense. Clams, they're coming
I don't want love or remorse to follow, I want
them in the way, things to burst through, corollaries
to be roped and tackled by, surprise, get killed
and thank you. Reversible cockpit dragged around
by strings, behaving with survivors' righteousness
as informed by the local rag smiling at thee. Gadgets
sugar-coated, the limpid diction of crossword plug-ins
preying on brain. See hand cover lens, outrage sighs
with competitive relief, heir to a calamitous invisibility
To quell demands of irrelevance I abandoned fiction
and film for the diversions of plow and hearth
These soft hands are a lie. There is music
everywhere, open containers of booze, shafts
of light moving through cityscapes, anxious work
health, fate, tributes to friends recently gone
The language of rotting imperialist bodies echoes
the sixties and its radical smile. Blood for blood off
air eventually pulling away. Plane rides don't
generate, garden state brickface, insights, you're
in control. Plastic baby spread your arms in front
of the green chalk outline of wrathful happenstance
and dig the post-cataclysm report. The image
doesn't mean to conjure a painful memory, but won't
give up doing so freely. Why, for the torrential
stink comes near such certitude staving off concision
Would your God be bored if everyone was happy?
Waiting for someone to bum out of somewhere
holding out for come along. Promised mines
We're gonna deny "˜til the end. What. Soft front
in a sieve. Along the tramside, freon daze
to replenish the storied pressure. You terrorize
the moon with glee and I can't be hard to understand
Twisted impulse to describe. Hideous movie
trigger. Throw me in a book, freeze it, waste
product of a voice staving off the elemental fidget
Single incidents have erased escalation
from the surface of our fears. What good to be hack
-sawed during limo rides? Hide your collateral hooey
in identity theft accepting renewal orders. Guilt
by proxy in participatory communal investigation
Copycat pre-emption, an obscure murder string
on the public glide by sight. The victim was a John
doughnut pining for leadership in the passenger seat
They came at you with love and the harmony of low
expectations during off hours. They'll pay you
for your opinion while you bring it live to
the transient geometry of an empty news vessel
Flummoxed safety drill phases itself out
whacked in the chiseled grime, skinned plot hung
in a meat locker suckers like me never see, guided
through non-recall, the same way they did before
attain. Moment of scarce motion. Anyone damaged
or killed at the expense of my dignified abrasion
never was there. Three zero seven am buzzsaw
blues but joyful for an unfocused minute liger-like
so huge and uncomfortable in time and space, drops
from a plastic straw, gesturing in these old photos
as if to say I am telling you something of great
significance about the bugs in your hair. Hang
a manwich in the air and its mouths bite back
Equations filled with sentiment made degradation
acceptable for a moment. Dejectable subvices
encounter my restless self-shredder. I can quail
at varying speeds unbeknownst to the there you
are crowd. I only see money when I look at
miniature boxes on spread sheets. How common
is it for a person to be defined by their weakest
moments under public scrutiny? How common
is it for those who endure no public scrutiny to revel
in their supposed weaknesses. The televised image
faking consensus, the signed statement groping
tonally for authority. It's a shame I have to be sick
to surround myself with thought in practice. Space
begging to be filled the names opinions take. Wolf
blitzed by the Big Aristotle. The Fatalist reminding
me meaning has its rulers. Perhaps so many look for
reassurance in the threat of meaning because they
know its being made for them. I can't be a site
alas, kerplunk. Whatever it is it deserves a banner
if it can hold our attention. Am I supposed to
believe we're receiving information? Can I defect
back to curious skepticism in the moonlight, stone
rabbit? Next to the people I know doing it is a
box-framed bloody claw. Is she thinking about
the descent, the sharpie marked inner child strewn
along loose cable cords? Promise to illustrate
your point about inhuman language with depthful
examples of subzero tenderness and I'll continue
smoking up like a balcony loving to curl into a fist
Regurgitation means birdy love. Of each night's
folding shot away from my flagging solo dismount
I don't beg a stay. Fucking order. I could be
stepping up the intensity, tearing out some molecules
on loan for the primordial boot and chucking
the pseudo-leveraged flail for vengeance. This
hackneyed analysis of our coat of arms disguised
as historic arc of will. Great subjugation termites
mugging for the epoch. Would sit in the rectangular
room watching instant replay on the square for hours
It called for me. Middle class heat from a lowered
mound. The promise of an interesting life
in the signals. Little arms entering realm
of slipshod targeting. And being outraged by
the outrage is another victory for torture. Woke up
saying things again, knowing it was a set up
but unable to call it off. Irrelevance beckons.
Certain in-between fates made a break for it
were ridden down, so I could turn myself into
a dozen shots. Imagine the spooks and their out
of date computers. Are we content with a migration
back to productivity as measured by holding on tight?
Doling out snippets of the next great tectonic shift
The Mansquito coils to strike its enemies, leading
us to work through a gentle maze of self-assessments
I know all the bottled water isn't fooling anyone but
a gleam of stratosphere might soothe the scrum
I can't count on the unlooked for energy that took
to rise in me at will, but I've strengthened my ability
to make a stand firm surface. A steady demeanor
will drive conflicted information away, back to
the abyss from whence it came, but I'll be right
here the morning after wracked in a private shame
too terrible to admit and utterly inconsequential.
Any channel can tell. Due process appears in beauty
and salacious misgiving at once; an agility borne
from creative malice, a benign insecurity. The plain
truth: I forget the curtains are open sometimes
and the hands wander. That's why I'm destined for
the side exit. Will the false preacher soundproof
the walls? The room stares back from its things
I spin out and pick a stance for swill's sake fearing
the return of contact and its inevitable pull on my
devotions. How do you prepare for what isn't in
your narrow line of sight? Let the grip take hold
and fight for this wallowing obeisance. Describe
the closest point of deanimation as if only it can
save you from emotion's hideous glare, scuttled
on the fade into demi-sleep, lines holding froth
Take out the recycling; use the seamless experience
to fit any décor, leaping impossibly high while
spinning in hyper slo mo, lying shattered like
a digitized blue stick person, and after uttering
the twisted lines he sank back into their throne
He'd swung against and, unbended, changed
carriers. Five years ago I put this wheel on this stick
Warbling a ditty wishing not to evade her
he understands the end of the world, will not waste
time feeling your pain, and everything tragic
in between is unworthy of comprehension. Cuddle
gut staunch in defense. Clams, they're coming
I don't want love or remorse to follow, I want
them in the way, things to burst through, corollaries
to be roped and tackled by, surprise, get killed
and thank you. Reversible cockpit dragged around
by strings, behaving with survivors' righteousness
as informed by the local rag smiling at thee. Gadgets
sugar-coated, the limpid diction of crossword plug-ins
preying on brain. See hand cover lens, outrage sighs
with competitive relief, heir to a calamitous invisibility
To quell demands of irrelevance I abandoned fiction
and film for the diversions of plow and hearth
These soft hands are a lie. There is music
everywhere, open containers of booze, shafts
of light moving through cityscapes, anxious work
health, fate, tributes to friends recently gone
The language of rotting imperialist bodies echoes
the sixties and its radical smile. Blood for blood off
air eventually pulling away. Plane rides don't
generate, garden state brickface, insights, you're
in control. Plastic baby spread your arms in front
of the green chalk outline of wrathful happenstance
and dig the post-cataclysm report. The image
doesn't mean to conjure a painful memory, but won't
give up doing so freely. Why, for the torrential
stink comes near such certitude staving off concision
Would your God be bored if everyone was happy?
Waiting for someone to bum out of somewhere
holding out for come along. Promised mines
We're gonna deny "˜til the end. What. Soft front
in a sieve. Along the tramside, freon daze
to replenish the storied pressure. You terrorize
the moon with glee and I can't be hard to understand
Twisted impulse to describe. Hideous movie
trigger. Throw me in a book, freeze it, waste
product of a voice staving off the elemental fidget
Single incidents have erased escalation
from the surface of our fears. What good to be hack
-sawed during limo rides? Hide your collateral hooey
in identity theft accepting renewal orders. Guilt
by proxy in participatory communal investigation
Copycat pre-emption, an obscure murder string
on the public glide by sight. The victim was a John
doughnut pining for leadership in the passenger seat
They came at you with love and the harmony of low
expectations during off hours. They'll pay you
for your opinion while you bring it live to
the transient geometry of an empty news vessel
Flummoxed safety drill phases itself out
whacked in the chiseled grime, skinned plot hung
in a meat locker suckers like me never see, guided
through non-recall, the same way they did before
attain. Moment of scarce motion. Anyone damaged
or killed at the expense of my dignified abrasion
never was there. Three zero seven am buzzsaw
blues but joyful for an unfocused minute liger-like
so huge and uncomfortable in time and space, drops
from a plastic straw, gesturing in these old photos
as if to say I am telling you something of great
significance about the bugs in your hair. Hang
a manwich in the air and its mouths bite back
Equations filled with sentiment made degradation
acceptable for a moment. Dejectable subvices
encounter my restless self-shredder. I can quail
at varying speeds unbeknownst to the there you
are crowd. I only see money when I look at
miniature boxes on spread sheets. How common
is it for a person to be defined by their weakest
moments under public scrutiny? How common
is it for those who endure no public scrutiny to revel
in their supposed weaknesses. The televised image
faking consensus, the signed statement groping
tonally for authority. It's a shame I have to be sick
to surround myself with thought in practice. Space
begging to be filled the names opinions take. Wolf
blitzed by the Big Aristotle. The Fatalist reminding
me meaning has its rulers. Perhaps so many look for
reassurance in the threat of meaning because they
know its being made for them. I can't be a site
alas, kerplunk. Whatever it is it deserves a banner
if it can hold our attention. Am I supposed to
believe we're receiving information? Can I defect
back to curious skepticism in the moonlight, stone
rabbit? Next to the people I know doing it is a
box-framed bloody claw. Is she thinking about
the descent, the sharpie marked inner child strewn
along loose cable cords? Promise to illustrate
your point about inhuman language with depthful
examples of subzero tenderness and I'll continue
smoking up like a balcony loving to curl into a fist
Regurgitation means birdy love. Of each night's
folding shot away from my flagging solo dismount
I don't beg a stay. Fucking order. I could be
stepping up the intensity, tearing out some molecules
on loan for the primordial boot and chucking
the pseudo-leveraged flail for vengeance. This
hackneyed analysis of our coat of arms disguised
as historic arc of will. Great subjugation termites
mugging for the epoch. Would sit in the rectangular
room watching instant replay on the square for hours
It called for me. Middle class heat from a lowered
mound. The promise of an interesting life
in the signals. Little arms entering realm
of slipshod targeting. And being outraged by
the outrage is another victory for torture. Woke up
saying things again, knowing it was a set up
but unable to call it off. Irrelevance beckons.
Certain in-between fates made a break for it
were ridden down, so I could turn myself into
a dozen shots. Imagine the spooks and their out
of date computers. Are we content with a migration
back to productivity as measured by holding on tight?
Doling out snippets of the next great tectonic shift
The Mansquito coils to strike its enemies, leading
us to work through a gentle maze of self-assessments
I know all the bottled water isn't fooling anyone but
a gleam of stratosphere might soothe the scrum