Segue furniture stores straddle dehydrated billboards as latte foam falls from the sky pushing through caribou blood and reinventing the log cabin in the boiling snow. We set a pin in it, speculating on survival within brimful pickling jars. This is what is meant by tenacity, what we mean to haul back through tennis court wires licking jam from our fingers.
Found some Bambi eyes blinking in the sand, needs love all night long with the diamond necklace, or cashmere camisoles on gingered up squares, tantric illusions read from a manual test the waters of a different output with wants coming as hard-coated shiny pellets. Switch to watching reconstituted Walmart babies reared under our tracksuits, riding on promises of discounted groceries pureed to a rich mineral soup.
Other lives spent in spandex stretch from the screen to the couch where faceprints in manilla file words headed: IMPERATIVE: Dreamwork to be done constructs shift to the edge of the beach; a carousel gets caught in the concrete mix, tacky fingers through the hair, still hot from the candy floss inferno of dispossessed holidaymakers. So what if this means life in a canister, continued reticence is pointless
vacillating between this and chintzy covers of laminated tea roses, alternative options blossom through the open architecture. Stare ink and octopus onto a plate; how far does this go toward policing the politesse, spreading harmony thick like crunchy peanut butter. However, the discourse runs like viscous into your open palms swindling the recurrent towards the black
switch on at 4, punching holes in the LED’s tiny face before going double time and cracking open that somatic lesion in search of more fruit machine cherries. Stop to lick orange juice from your chin. Costs of connectivity filched from juice concentrate and redesigned to provide headsets in various sizes so hum now over broadcasts pushing latest closures into recesses where shoes can be stored. Leave hollows where catseyes were picked from sweaty tarmac to hang like rhinestones on our belts.
Prospecting on Color Me Beautiful ranges, the hillsides are propagated and doused in ginseng and cotton wool, expunged personas shimmer like heat haze; finding a place in this landscape is difficult. You get caught at the throat and pass the day busy eating jelly tots we used as pawns. There are no defence lines now, just a couple of people we like to hand blow torches now and then.
In the Centenary Gardens, I lose you push pavements to the back of my eyes, fighting at losses in the tinted interior, swallow Optrex and do away with the periscope only to silence desires and shove them into little paper bags to discard like sugar.
Abasement Marks
Constative explosions break the deluge. Every morning move out to drown alone in order to continue and carry over the bars the chance of a real destination.
In the basket pushing leaded lids back over again, sink-hole crying forgotten you look to who’s calling from the tin can slung from tree to tree
fingers stretching foliate towards a receding gem, flailing loosely after tattered kites every-time you bid to look beyond the terrapin-hooded sky.
Push Formica into this ventral tegmentum to prevent further outbursts, everyone can be who they want to be. Snapped at once at that pitching walls
driftways fishing you out of the gulfs to pocket my vanity of petty incidence and set the locket for safety’s sake towards tonight and back up this keepsake.
Shift yourself under the sand and paint your price lisping on the scales between blurred distinctions ground to powder the lost assurance waking
before the part that really gets me is coming over all of a palpitated newspaper doll this morning; inserts for the future follow along collapsible seams.
Face-prints mutiny during overtime, ever chasing, I char my floatation tank and swallow down jalapeno lassis, wanting the world
to glow like a neon sign, hot-wired adrenal glands spattering electronic fight or flight into my butterfly kiss. Hold down and submit to reticulation.
Seeing other faces transferred to the identity parade lines acceptingly, smile at those confining gestures through the ringer and take out
your hand from that blender now. Cross my palm with fistfuls raised from the hairline, nominally a wink in the night chain of subventions
rocketing upwards on a soda-stream blood rush bubbles bouncing off freckles in your eyes tumbling towards a more rigid floor plan on the gravel.
What you will reasonably bend to fit and preen with a blunt edged bill under the same microscope, flash lights on you through that idle mouth
to your loved one through a tube stretching recorded instances to cover the melting scotch tape of memories. Filing points against
emery boards, crimped hair brushed to one side, over again and carded by delinquent choices within the curvature of her spine tap back at
the squared circle disproportionately hollow and craning that dell between smooth overheads taking nothing from me but my lips and what’s besides left in innermost recesses to depart.
Thinking Practice
Beta-blockers against the pips effusively less on the pastrami back rub is this wakefulness next to stilettoed heart rung through to speak now and hold. Ahead of it breaks your
thrust and parry of the dominant palimpsest lodged intercostally, tap-holing your white breath to billow figurines from the oil drum, otherwise being the compassionate rib-cage relapsed exponentially stuck sick to the sump.
Tankers move in raised handshakes bangled clinchers keep time with hair-lip refinements, the fiscally removed. Last week’s weigh-in left me groundless procuring a soft-shoe shuffle to the total abandonment of rapeseed found wanting in the night still placing those eczema mittens over your eyes to
cut the sash cord and let fly night time flutters, scrambled lemon hits the asphalt bust squarely on chin strap up the segment of prospective encounter, countering that and grappling against inflated rubber gloves smacking together fingers like fat swollen purple grapes
a new arm at your side, moves you craving summer’s heat-rash by proxy pizza-faced and waiting by the hypomanic’s bedside. Nursemaid to yourself, record generatively the tracings of black nerves through tar neuron sparks appear as plastic holograms stuck to the wings of ivory butterflies battered against the whirlpool of hot margarine.
