Skip to main content

24 Visits to the Nail Salon

The Inquisition resembles framed debate, with flowers transmuted into toads. Toads are all right, fictions with tongues. But we must remain cognizant that climate change and claptrap produce farms. Why is the big unknown.

Benches of grey strokes produce futile farms. Fluency exercises create our future. We aren't tractors, we are men and women, perhaps a few lorn children, okay some dogs, cats, a dolphin or two, some wax figurines, a bit of lint, the point is, we create meaning just by standing by as time passes and then passes again.

This is the signal moment, complete with commas. Semi-colons mark the moment when something included could be left out, straightway to the center of backing away. That's why we bully children.

When not bullying children or implying immigrants or examining our inner lint, we have the scrumptious duty to appear focal. The farm must feed the billion openings that may say Yes to the right No. It's a program or problem, whatever

Meaning

produces candlestick

wainscoting in a brilliant

littoral waistcoat. Wow means

faddish brilliance, same as

children. Our best pants tell us everything.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
2 comments
Read more

A Child’s Proletariat Garden

  The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
1 comment
Read more

A Screed Left Town

  Inside the excuse for nation: leafy tractors (any bonding to the brownness of earth will do). A day’s march from the next day’s march, the love amongst us on a map. The map shows citadel, city in a dell, and abounding fields. The trees have effort to contend with. Bears chuff to excess in a workfarm spring. Something tall rises on the plain. Mills confirm the need for rivers. Troops stop where the food is. Terror provides the function for non-terror, in zones described as war-like. Pictures become words for people sighing. One sees a lack of food, or especial jewels, or the need for frocks made from bison. Another tower seems important for a nation’s existence, one taller than might. It will seem like tradition. You and I are left to explain.
Post a Comment
Read more