Skip to main content

Stanley, It's a dark and stormy night, Umper-Kunst

Judith Halberstam did say, "Desire Has A Terrifying Precision."

The water's getting there. The truck is keeping it's lights trained on the embankment. A rusted TV aerial is twisted up in the scrub at the base of this dead tree. I keep pulling on the antenna but nothing keeps happening again. Stanley comes over and wipes at his brow in a methodical way that suggests that the action isn't entirely fruitless.
Honest urchin, Stanley raises up his hand. Tom I'll swear it out on a stack of Al's holy's. They're clocks, just like fucking clocks.
I grab my shovel and look the foul tangle over again.
What’s to keep these institutions from forming bigger more aggregated versions of themselves... They're sure as shit gonna buy into each others collections. It won’t be partnering then but it'll be something like it. More like they'll be lashing them collections together until they form one massively cohesive jobber of a snowball. Them umper-kunsts will redistribute all that history however they see fit then. They’ll toss gobs and gobs of civics and beauty at us pigeons down here. They’ll make up more and more children to tell all their stories too. Once you get 'em wound up, He says finally. There ain't no stopping them. Not until the history just runs right out. The pile of sand was washing out again and the coarse bags kept floating off.
I don't know Stan. If this goes the whole fucking ditch is washing out.
It's your say Tom.
How much juice is left in that Truck...
Maybe an hour.
He's the king of the kings of all of the things... That his father has laid before ya... He's set his table with dishes radishes and porridge... I'm working at Planet Jesus... I'm eating fried cheeses... I'm washing some dishes and wishing I was kissing... All of the girls I'm missing...

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.


Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…