Skip to main content

Autumn

 And you say these gods have burst, current seasonal symptom, or your own personal, preferential practical god appliance manifests weight. Cooling trend in this piece of year warns of matters before matters, meanwhile matters, which don’t. Weather satisfies the unhappy note you plan to feel. Gods, or primal arrogance, your pet lizard, feature shady reasons. Merge and feel cold in normal god thing. Are you coughing a lot? Well now the catastrophe finds nurture. Some worlds just tumble, quite as the leaves decide to let go. What has chlorophyll been hiding that we jump for, all these years? Why do panza divisions happen to good people? A foot crunches snow with temerity, the good use of temerity when weather turns bleak. Try bleak as a measured response to slightly colder nights. The gods give you gods so you can be gods, with any complaint registered in the special book where your name means measured appeal. Do not enjoy foggy, cool mornings. Someday winter will turn verbs upon you and bad. The president Joe Biden is a communist because you specifically let winter god appliance scuffle the harmonium intro to winter. You funded face plant, you. We have measured response paid for by common dictate. Winter will trample till you just step on.


Comments

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.

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.

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.