This Husk of a Mule (a brief logic for work)

hommage aux benevoles

We the turlip, Vixed a spritely mass to some Call us son and pass, attributed to Ham

The pen will stab and pinch but the camera will bind our awareness while the tools of architecture and design spin cunning simulacrum of cultural desire all around us. The befuddlement of such principled design can itself be a strange metric extraction of which is my purpose. Still the ease with which I slip the knot of this magick with the work of my gilded tongue is beguiling. They might say purple but I'm beyond that too.

I open the first book that I pull down. It's yellow pages are dry but not coarse. The ink inside of them is bold. The text stands stunningly erect despite how old it must be. I read out a random line, To mutilate the goat of your culture Make us first into brooklyn Then ahHa study our SUGAR walls with must. Can this whole experience be spread any better then that I wonder...

I'm standing at the margin of a limitless page of blank waiting with the animal bones and all of the tools of husbandry that could be spared. I have my gout and ten sheets of sheeps-cloth. My errand of chance has at last left any doubts well behind. It's now time to invent corn and Gauls and semaphore or die in the approaching pageantry of history.

The exacting specifics of which include 3 chapters for Canaan Oh Canaan, Brief Warmth of the Flesh, and Boastful of These Fruit and Debt. The befuddlement of these metrics is before us spilled on limitless pages of blank. Deep in the warm wim that's much after this adulation and there the piles of red too. We'll see dreams like long strings of code drugging up our war. Now they're bent on the destruction of Holland and France and all the shy folk of Peru. Our's is the trumpet that we share in secret beneath these sheets.

These are the deep ruins and I remember many mystical days like this. The speedy way that we'd lean out to pluck the harbor's fish from our string. We spent our drifting there in these great loops singing with would be but often flat voices, Oh frog Oh frog of thee.
Then we'd get stoned and she'd talk endlessly about being designed to be a real tool. But instead they made a mistake this time. She's actually much more like a cunning manifestation of a simulacrum that's been machined to resemble a foreign built simile. As she finishes her hit the camera binds and secures the scope or our perceptual awareness. There's a click. She coughs and then says, That's why I can see you so well. It's because I'm this robot of you and you're almost free.
I take the bong from her. Of course I know that my experience with the tools of this goobür were the unforeseen results of an action that's had crippling goobüntüsborg. I know that we're encapsulated here forever and I giggle. Who's going to hear... I'm stoned and she's spread across the bed in her orange frock like a limp giggle of herself. I stifle a greater laugh and then another one before finally saying, But you look like candy on a stick.
Can we dance...