Leo Sayer can't talk to Stan Brakhage anymore

The bell in the seaman's hand, the incense, and the choirs nest are all together now.

Foliated and compressed drawn from beneath the water on the wet side of the weather. Bias has its own freedom, its own place that always matters more than this here blood. Open the line of this street down its middle. We'll wait this long night through the eye of a needle. The end. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye...

I'd love you twice as much tomorrow, then the clasp at the other end of it breaks. Mad as the moon on the moors, King Ovid-Pants always agrees with me as my fingers continue fumbling. The pendant slips its chain, sliding down into the place between your breasts. Maybe it's looking to discover amphetamines and Stan Brakhage there. On the day we marched up and down the length of my way away underground room, we had numbers to shout loudly as though they were somehow standing in for arcane thesis or the lost standards of litmus. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the board between us. We were never married to the ideas we found that day but we liked the speed of some. In the window a projector ticks and slaps as we admire the stately scale of the narrow wall from my ratty ass bed.
We'll have it all, My nerves are shot. They've been harvested from the spoons and a boneless side of teeth. Cold and a little blue I've begun to buckle and I sting. I reach for whiskey. An old bottle from a somewhere drawer that's been filled with keys. Let's sing us a song a radical song of release. Let's get these lines together, or I say that I'm breathing like a little boy again.
So don't turn this around, Oh ugh oh...

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

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