A header loop, blasted past the changeable insults of
silence; frank fucked and fleeting with each passing wind, the narrower the
power the solider the bounce. The old pound of indifference leads one to think
such thoughts as to think about nothing, nothing at all. It can be a tough up
for cups, still full with our memories, and dripping with contempt. What I mean
to say is a sudden foaming, looming large against the reflection of the window.
I just want you to know you’re a lovely dancer. That being said, there are
foams all over your face and you look like a hyena, laughing at all that stares
at your in the face. The fair and enduring structures cannot be held, nor told,
to the mass that occupies that seat. A pot of fear makes for a grand ointment. The
demands for such saddened cups. Let’s take a moment to mourn: the puppet’s pulpit. Let’s legitimatize the
condiment table. Let’s loosen our perceptions and call a spade a rake. Tubular
men tie sponges to the teeth and float away endlessly. This is what we call the
stupor of reason.
An inevitable hilt, stuck by the side of the road,
still running.
