Wednesday 26 May 2010
MECHANICAL MEANS W/O ACTS
satisfaction to him was another kind of labor. she connived and had her own highchair to dive from. a toy of herself. did he remember to bring his drugs up from the basement? his bald head twitched. sandpaper and cattle calls and small blades. an electric mower for grass he doesn't want to cut.
she gave him the unholy stinkeye. bangs and eruptions from his stomach, a shutter,the slats and shadows of her veins in his face. charisma shuffles its feet and peaks through a free publication. liars dance and pantomime while partial-psychosis partially serves as a conduit for an entire truth.
micromanaged thoughts and personalities, a lack of a notebook. scheduled pleasures turned into a middleman, a silly fool- and lazy. won't frame a picture. the lost and lonely bathroom detached from herself, it reeked and moaned about most of the day. a lichen or two in the urine stench. friends that make art.
consciousness of surroundings at all times. a fixed preparation and sort of tension. she needed a birthday present on the 30th. she wanted to schedule a time to show the venue. she wanted a waiver of arraignment. she needed her art to sell. she needed a microphone. she needed me to come get my art. he needed me to come get my art. he wanted to come get his art. he wanted me to submit some of my art. she doesnt trust my art. she doesnt care about my art. he inspires my art. so does she.
his mannerisms had grown so subtle; feedback had begun to disappear. treasure my ancestors and a day when black and white left more. we filled in, tried not to lie, while she read from her fantasy and held it together- thoughts somewhere in the room almost cried, happy and so supportive. afraid of a different kind of loss. she wasn't just moving away. they'd shared the craft and it led them to
sentient cavern that fills and then drafts, so warm, then so apathetic. a container. non-reflective racing thoughts and a roof, a sort of business that's delusional. busy-ness like prayer, makes thinkin' do more or less not much more than half of fragmented ideas. a thorn in the mood, rotten cayenne hourglass with a wart nose chuckle. permeates and stains. trashy multi-tasked fingers cramp and sleep, to wake up and do it all over again. oblivious or so it would seem.
WHAT WILL YOU DO?
If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25
- ▼ May (4)