stagnanTVowels

fig.zer0-dope) tic-tac EMT vomit ace bandage limitation "This is the only slow fishing song I know. Floating backwards, I can hear it in my ears while a line squiggles its very long path of many adjacent rays that reach all the way out to the sun. Where the ocean can be heard like a slip of of fabric being ushered to the floor. I know this song like it's a bell inside of my hollow head, a miracle shouting for recognition or content that's for the sake of more content. Carrying on like this, in a row like they're hollow bones or the satellites of tiny teeth making up a circlet upon your brow by imitating all the damp glitter I've just swept from under our rug. My eyes are very alive when they see you. They're not just organs, they're goosed up on fear. They're cowboys looking to dance with the danger of their own angels under the gnarlish tree that's beside a four sided mule who's benaying or beneaping seems askew." I find myself singing thi...

Fig.90) Foster and Herd She leaves the back door unlocked and slips out through the alleyway. Smoking, Katt wanders the waggle of the lake where the sand and the water seal their deal. The beaches are so terrible with broken glass and porcelain, it's hard imagining anyone being here when the lights are on. A generation of scribbled plumbing has washed up on the shores of Diamond City as babies have learned to dance toilets were being broken and discarded. Trucks are filled with these and all the other things that can fit inside of a wrapper. Once the vacationing bodies go away, taking with them their oil and cigarettes, that's when the trucks are dumped. When the hours are dim and skinny, Katt's mostly indifferent to clocks, comme ci comme ca right? She listens to all of it while she smokes. "I miss being a painter," Milton says. He's writing a book about North Florida. "When she left, Mom might have had the better knees but I couldn't keep on wakin...

fig03.9) this dense medicine "While most of us are employed, our nebulous employers, the business owners and grifters hoarding their peacocks and sawmills have found the time for stealing the breath of our very union from us." "Aren't the shadows perfect then," Ovid speaking. There's a pearl necktie, it's blue edges have sunk into the bottom of her perfect well. Two of her glasses have tipped when the radio echoed from it's side table. The trim plastic box is as mean and as white as a jar of frightened bees trembling. There's a mystery of towels sharing their smell and space with the temptations that children have hidden there. "Testing our resolve will just continues this flawed model for exchange. It currently hides downstairs under the couch with the cable box. Wouldn't it be easier to admit that we've been experiencing some aspect of a system that's gone awry. That many of us are actively exercising our restraint against such...

fig.35.09) the bastard's wings have legs   "Two poems were made with stale smelling plastic and balls of tape that's been long dried up. Here they are now, about to be said. Beetless, less beets, without bread or tears we are bottled hammerless and away. Footless, less feets, without said years to sleep in our garden we are roused and then gone again," to be done from nowly, to be done with it soon.  "Words I know, I know, inside the wall of this page. I want to be that girl in her hat. Knowing guilt famously, being floppy as an old lung. My ice cream not melting, if I were a certain girl in a certain hat but then these flowers couldn't be smelt or dealt." While I don't agree that Silverstein was examining the taxonomy binding any of the social structures affecting him, I believe that he was a keen observer of his own actions and that he recognized his own passivity in the face of the sweeping cultural changes being made throughout the postwar period...

fig.29.56) this plane is full. Broken signs, bog mud on ankle boots in the boring rain between votes. These trolls are very full of cowboys who didn't make it to the end of their movies. Busted blue lips are frosted with foam, dropping their unlikely beats on the solfege. All in a row, smeared like one long beard stretching out to the last of something. No popcorn stench from the lawn, no serious mule shitz, just the sound of rabble falling back to their stones.