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Frango rewrite, The Hearing

In the pit of the green, behind the sands of Lee
Every astronaut swoons leftly then gently to the rightish Among these starry tides Every narrative poised Every tile as slippery as when The spilled hearts the gushing metaphors arrive The slushing sparks of the rakish moon Every astronaut swoons tonight - An classic astronaut's drinking tune
Abiding and wet this purple world looks as slick as a waxed tongue. Montstre Frango selected Dutch’s enormous hangar for the hearing. Years ago John saw Parch’s original drawings for the Dutch before the hangar was added. This brown building was a well balanced example of the equation; space equals people being exploited. Then after that it got this hangar and now some of it’s door science has also been improved. The metal frame shifts with some click clackery tick tappening as John steps up. Then after a second the translucent door does its door thing, oh the wonders of exploitation.
The walls itch with anticipation. Monstre Frango had the massive windows opened for this. Now there's a pervasive electrical zen that's kicking from head to head to head. All of the weather that's stacked against the world is waiting for us out there. The storm rolls around above the lake. Its looking to spit when I walk into the hangar.
Dozens of fellows and bubble-eyed calligraphers are already here. They're poking the corners and taking notes. Impressive margins run in their already deep ledgers with all of those lines and letters jumbling on the leaflets branded by stamps of runny ink and spattered soup. The knotty dance of dotted eye slips the waist of the crossed tee. The long linear loops and curls finally catch up in a smear of flat and bountiful red. A number of older Auxiliary, the Monstre in their brown robes are gathered in front of the bleachers talking back and forth.
These are dark fantasies from a turned over drawer. They spend their time hanging, one after the other like conspirators strung up in baleful moods. Who care's what the bottom of the oven looks like after this one, I hear Monstre the Nancy tell this to Second Sally who's standing beside Sidzy, the tallest Monstre ever.
They're fantastically ill equipped to occupy this space. The paint is brown and blue and orange and it's atomized, Monstre Luza is in the center of the old hangar. Her ladder was installed there before the doors opened. Second Sally is Aux, she looks around and whispers into the back of her hand, It's blown primitively across the raw surface. The pigment gathers in whorls and streaks that forms up in a limp topography. It’s then distorted by the artist with more lexical debris.
Don't be dim this isn't an erotic system. There are no plates grinding at the hip of tectonic awareness here. These are not apportioned well at all, Monstre Sidzy tells them. The paths of umber meander along with the magnetic resonance between soiled veins of cobalt and cheap sunsets but to what end. I'd say that these are really the punted echo's of a night spent at a poorly lit kitchen table being more indulgent than clever.
This is sometime after Judith Halberstam said, Desire has a terrifying precision. And it’s close. there's some clickery. Then somewhere, probably down the hall, translucent doors did their door thing. Then, Dare war votses', mossil hums d'wit. Nay daa, bleeds as dey fluck choommed, frum dey oot til nod - from an anonymous ambassador's ledger (0001)
A drink...
Drip closer, May be wide...
A chord off, But, In the key of, Very or quite... Adding arabesque line after arabesque line of, Landscape.
On the other side it is. The paper's make it so.


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