Tattooed drag kings rap all this for everything. Or even the full form of change
meaning’s meaning or change nothing at all. Light breaks from the twitching phone
carried over by the revery of a darkened meme, thickening with a thousand year
bed plume determining the plucked orbit of shepherd’s cyanide.
This last line, which no-one will know if crossed, pops off layers
into the spaghetti-pit of treason as eggshell poof goes shyly
where the knackered poor kids may breath. There is also the final cut,
sudden extinction across vermillion skies not to be published, does not your foot
put notes under the cotton plug. Open wide, style aleph, to show our
correlationist fantasy of criticism as it barks on Halloween 2016 flashes
like reset care onto the star’s faces. No neon, this time they’re all acid colours
like terra itself resolved into a gangster theology of ecstatic fragments, safety buckles
as acetone top-card entanglements in equally neon lace, the shoah’s ark redux
like the mistake to have kissed Jonfliefli. The sea-slides yellow skellow
sunflowers on the side just by the sea, just by the sea but under the sway
of the extinguished conditions of conditions of life. Kids breath the sky like glue
or like life which they need to live one condition. A bat’s torso won’t be put off
the tacitry of the iPhone reel. I sign in remote at the singing bowl at the picnic
in the standing rock gardens to sing, secure, about poetry’s fast one
as toxic duration, never threatened by the note of its own inner speed. All this
fucking known replete and extincto retro-fitted to a tongue’s mutiny
the animal letteration swallows so obvious it hardly needs
not saying at all. Because the secret is denied them they make it secret,
a castrato and a faun, to find the grammar of paradise in the dreadlockless stapler
volleyed by a star posing as a lesion in the apogee of bubble-wrap fur.