stagnanTVowels

Somewhere along a short street, shorty finds the house. It's made from cottage brick and it's sitting on an acre that was cut from wiry timber. The night's so slurred with the conceit of being both wet and vagabond. No one around here likes this street. If anyone can, they stay away. They're making faces and eating popcorn for dinner tonight. If there's any consensus among them; it's that hanging up paintings while laughing about the absurdity of Benjamin's camera is much better than living on this street. We're staying dry and joking about math and what it's good for. But we should be deciding who is getting the room with the painting in it. On this day that's getting off into the night, our truck of things has left and our bikes are still in Garden Point. So here we are, stuck inside of this problem with no subtle solutions and worrying about our socks getting wet while eating cold pizza on the rug. Until we recognize there's no more table

fig.14.90) our dinner party is made from wax and mesh                                            We've been coming upstairs less and less, things keep burning or begin to run out as we get sad. "How cold is it," I ask again, pointing to the calendar above our shop sink. Stabbing my finger at the nothingness inside one of the boxes beside itself. An enthusiastic eater of sex, she spurns any of my squalid rationales for comparative or binary tropes. "Splendid," she says. "They won't pin me to any of their fucking walls." Setting forth, on the dim waters and dark tides. Slipping away from Fuck-off and heading straight towards Fuck-all-yall, Myko knows where to go. "We're finding a place where the happy bees dance, isn't that right Katt?" "While I want restful sleep to dream in, a fitting collapse devised from easy work is more likely. For one such as myself, one of languid character that doesn't suffer easily, I probably sh

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

fig.39.09)) adjacent to none Dizzy Gillespie plays Swing Low Sweet Cadillac, the very first time I heard this, I was still in school. I had visited an old friend. We were sitting in her dining room listening to this whole album and talking about little family stuffs. Later on, I found myself copy of the album at Jazz Record Mart. I also bought some Charles Mingus or Sun Ra. I probably spent all of the money I had for food that week, but I had this sweet Dizzy Gillespie album to listen too in my empty kitchen. I don't listen as much as I did. I have more music now, but I also have less quiet inside of me. Behind the house, writing before opening the gallery on Saturdays, there's an artist. In the morning, they often have coffee and cigarettes here. Sometimes they share breakfast with a partner, another artist or someone named Katt. They're neighbors. They like to talk about the scale of elephant jokes and the slow tease of perfect coffee makes them giggle. At night they will