From:low
Waking up in a bad imitation Jean Tinguely with an encyclopedia by my side, the words are scorched by some awkwardness destined to become martyrs. The stars drift down from the sky lower than the ceiling, in a slowed down never not enough, but just enough to be feathers of resistance. An early snow not yet awakened to the deep freeze of Persephone's lost tears, hundreds of thousands of tiny parachutes on the way to the battled darkness, drift off somewhere.
Scraps slowly turn into outlines and refocus. I start picking up a viscous mood dancing on an electrical breeze over liquid electrons beyond this insipid flat land. Both positive and negative charges converge in a tunnel, find their way along the way to some ozone hole, where they meet at the foundation crusade, filling the air with an agenda of hatred, cracking homes and crumbling minds, already crumbled and cracked, falling near to a nearby place, maybe something deeper and closer, turning everything into an alphabetical soup over pulverized vowels.
Something seems to be backing into shape, form, hue, color, light and dimensionality with its corresponding reference points. All conversations are slightly appropriated in a day break biplane slightly out of solar power. I can see candy colored lights - “all welcome,” “next in line,” and “apply within, our outfits our goof proof pudding of a new dawn.” Desperately trying to grasp at the fake to subdue the anxiety lost some where on the tip of my tongue searching for the marvelous, searching for the rest of an assumption lost without enough to create a lasting faith, or something that looks great on a book shelf, willing to except any manifestation ready to break glass and scream fire.
Language is attempting to form a deadfall voltage regulator, forming without a preamble or paralegalese fixating on the winds of durable material.
I see non-dreaming bodies. Bodies carved in green spandex, bodies whose heads are covered with green spandex helmets. This must be the original sense impressions inscribed in contrast.
Scraps slowly turn into outlines and refocus. I start picking up a viscous mood dancing on an electrical breeze over liquid electrons beyond this insipid flat land. Both positive and negative charges converge in a tunnel, find their way along the way to some ozone hole, where they meet at the foundation crusade, filling the air with an agenda of hatred, cracking homes and crumbling minds, already crumbled and cracked, falling near to a nearby place, maybe something deeper and closer, turning everything into an alphabetical soup over pulverized vowels.
Something seems to be backing into shape, form, hue, color, light and dimensionality with its corresponding reference points. All conversations are slightly appropriated in a day break biplane slightly out of solar power. I can see candy colored lights - “all welcome,” “next in line,” and “apply within, our outfits our goof proof pudding of a new dawn.” Desperately trying to grasp at the fake to subdue the anxiety lost some where on the tip of my tongue searching for the marvelous, searching for the rest of an assumption lost without enough to create a lasting faith, or something that looks great on a book shelf, willing to except any manifestation ready to break glass and scream fire.
Language is attempting to form a deadfall voltage regulator, forming without a preamble or paralegalese fixating on the winds of durable material.
I see non-dreaming bodies. Bodies carved in green spandex, bodies whose heads are covered with green spandex helmets. This must be the original sense impressions inscribed in contrast.
posted by kari at 7:52 AM
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