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

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

stagnanTVowels

Search This Blog