Before there was a beige fortress
and short nights rendering
idiocy to my getting idiot-dressed.
The chunked Harm-O-Lodge
air called to bedlessness.
Like a saltwater taffy-making machine
the matador rug wore
this tumultuous folding shelf we call “accidentally good,”
with a sideways glance from poise
that gave what lies beyond propaganda.
The joydivision to approach
is the silt cloud that films dead command
of these entitled to commodify
the heat of your light. Ziggomatic
chimed lack of slats & Kobo° schema.
Earth corrugated, lethargica
and the mode selector is recumbent.
The dawn tastes magnet-thick.
Orange tiles joyfully
told with blanketing angles promise
of configuration. The work
wakes up, muscular cables
iridescent and ice-
blanched. The walls disguise a real mass
my envelope will press.
Dogtag waste-bugatti around
the necks dredge against the escalator
in controlled fall.
This platform puts me afoot a bar
of sun realer than suns.
There will be
a stage some day to grab
the frozen vomit and make them
see the hot unspoken
signifier. The side of the range.
The compression things
are in cellophane blvds
and the sound of other nail-tappings.
I stood up and unfolded
at an ancient pace of universal cadence
There is a day inside the native plastic.
The wood staircase is reverb
with guiding stars
and shafts of light;
the shrine to fictional board meetings
behind every closed door,
rooms that do not communicate.
Must we not shine on the office.
Unreadable billboards to day retrieval.
The moulding is a language they tried
to hide from points
the ubahn core breaks
at the declarative
glass house, and face thick beams.
There is always at least a triangle
to displace azimuth
from the main window,
taking unimportant mountains,
in their place I-beams,
the arches and steel parachutes,
the working world of a singular deal,
the skycasing project of hilltops
inverted to cancel valleys.
Godbuilding is the main job,
largest consumer of metal.
next was god-sharing. I asked
for this hello from where
I romp and look at the mirror
too many times, from where
I knew the green stomach burn
that felt cold but consumed
metal coils thru the windows
called the moon down to open
the roof, remained a sound
mural of tomorrow atomized
grey in the chest.
A man playing violin
red cone attached,
they put no eyes on him.
Another with dulcimer jerked industrious
like a medical manequin.
These two sounds diode on the platz.
Something is devotion.
They were on their feet.
Filling roles like the coy who ignored them.
The street demands food and drinks
without being rude,
loose and squalid
as a peacemaker.
The conductor is ashamed
note is a naked parent.
The café was slow, green jazz,
Algeria house cluster
from a 1960 valley,
ice cold air over the river.
The arteries in my eyes
The buildings wasting negative space.
A deaf gypsy came
to give me a four-language card
and heart-shaped keychains.
I pointed to absinthe to see the beautiful
spoon they bring,
a house, wings or wormwood.
…anyone wearing sunglasses looks
arrogant because I can’t
see their eyes. He laughed
and I hid my face and looked
at the ground
between our feet like a child,
on the bare table.
The ache divinity hides between
The rain shales and municipal
brine fill small channels
on a cobblestone
arcade and bind
together its fish egg communities.
The stones are silent by my hand
(printed to the ground
so as to not directly gawk), and the tongue finds it not so,
any fissure able to drain a quivering
mound of what it has.
Then the cold material
is ergonomic as the water had glazed
the belly and brought it
darker than the posterior.
The palms come away sanded and each
dome push is a magnet flinging
onward in mosaic fountain.
The interlocutor will
eventually be bounded out from the empty
bin and all other bins
equipped with tube or boulevard,
as they would say on the economy to show
the gestalt of soggy
calamari rings trying
to flower in the shadow of medieval
cantilevers in the nail-stump pub and döner district.
A cocoon private stationary
it’s a cargo ship each day
they remind me, they remind I am a child
as a mirage the heat bends
the sky that’s close to the ground,
they are a caravan trailing off in the distance, striping as a fence,
dune bound into halves
a staked-out world of chipping latticework attachable to where
the shadows are clear lines of a foundry,
the box animal that can shift
the smoke goes two miles in the distance
but here only rains ash,
there is a flock of birds funneling
around inside a dust devil—
It throws ash to at least
me, and farther yet, landscape on all sides, burning exalted,
compartmentalizing the infinite,
human stomach never settles.
Where the sun slips,
a sky that I recognize as blue
and beige dagger swipes,
and the bleeding mango horizon where the docks
end, to the sea behind rocks,
the sound of wooden shoes across the pier,
over the god crevice where
sky and water crush the glimpse of finite days.
back grabbing at hands of saltwater
Spoke with open hands,
to shift jointed insects and be architect
after Xenakis of the already-fallen-over
the death position, and finally useless.
To find fluid location,
ideas of boundaries as inside or outside
of a circuitry, the distinct parts
are incubator tanks with an indefinite
edge, the line at untamed
wilderness. the emotive post-travel
account oversaturates with intrication
and falls asleep on the train
Blowing off dust before laying on red clay,
steel bricks, aluminum
bricks, bricks of green tea, bricks
of concept material
that can’t crisp in the vision,
so they are pods.
And there is music that disassembles,
an industry that flirts with insight,
the crushed concept cars,
the mash litbutter,
mashes real people. about machine games,
surgical tubing in knots
replacing the octopus in the sea.
The wet caricature in darkness
opened and collared
an enormous mushroom of steel and glass
an avenue lined with portraits
of young people
in tall punk hairstyles.
elders bowing over newborn clairvoyant,
the center of a glass flower
held an air of relax body placement.
could taste in the machinery.
walked faster and spoke in a fury of two
wanted to let become,
engulfed intoxication of finding,
but cranked out noise
from memorizing all detail of a place
that will be seen once.
on the fountain and terribly, stuffed
angels low around the crown.
Azure wood and gardens heavywet
saturated in historically metal
overcast, neon foliage from adjust
light and wavelength. Dew-weeping
closed a tunnel above the train,
treething around immaculate
tracks, the train rush under skin
of a countryside jugular,
sustained in the parentheses of the earth.
satellites of Mother Soft Consonant.
Language places two arenas where one is frail.