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 sauce and there's too much left to deliver, then we'll be stuck in the absurdity of this picture.
This cottage was built in 1875, but was almost immediately made taller and then converted into smaller rooms for let. That's where you'll find Captain Haster, in the register of the Platzflow's Regular Ferry Folk. After Captian Haster and MomJean died, Milton moved away and another family came to stay. These Missionaries of the somber cloth moved in and when they weren't crossing continents or smelting soft metals; they lived piously, throwing peach pits at the local dogs who filled their backyard with many secrets.
In the living room there's a picture of dark and greasy smoke that hanging over Garden Point and the rest of the Widows. It's like a pillow looming over its next victim. On a plate at the bottom of the frame, a plaque reads; all that's left standing along the Platzflow. It's just a single cottage and its small wood shed. Both of them are covered in gruesome mud. It surrounds them for a mile at least; a wreak of buildings, boats and animals covered in soft heavy lines. Small among the mess stands Milton. He's in the doorway smoking his pipe.
In the margins are some short notes; the Editor likes debris; more barrels and broken cartwheels, that kind of stuff. They want flattened houses and their bricks should be strewn among the dead. Generally, the depth of field needs to be narrower, the whole atmosphere should hang like dead weight.
There's an earlier photo from another newspaper. It shows the same cottage on String Street, but this is before the upheaval of the Platz. Before the destruction and the mud that stretches from the river out to the world. This picture shows a homemade sign in front; DOG&SEED. In the cobbled street, there's a black cart that's heaped with ladders and chutes and there's Milton, smoking his pipe.
There are different notes here: For good or ill, this is close to the porous edge of history and your crappy poetry has preceded us. For good or ill, the boxes on this calendar have started to fade. The hums of fantasy, the grinding of their sexy bits will perpetually reproduce simulacra until time's end. While we're stuck inside this train, going through whatever tunnel is nearest the falling smokestack.
Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading the note and she knowingly confronts her moment's truth. This isn't Morocco. We're not in Tangier and no one has to die yet. She stops, "no!" she stops again and thinks, "this is way more like Dogmatic every day."
Littered as it is with robot leavings and the burnt flags of nowhere. The retreating kids still defiantly hold the distant corners of morning while she's fighting fascism in the dust behind her shed. Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone uses her 50 cent pencil to hold down the paper. She writes, I will be free.
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 sauce and there's too much left to deliver, then we'll be stuck in the absurdity of this picture.
This cottage was built in 1875, but was almost immediately made taller and then converted into smaller rooms for let. That's where you'll find Captain Haster, in the register of the Platzflow's Regular Ferry Folk. After Captian Haster and MomJean died, Milton moved away and another family came to stay. These Missionaries of the somber cloth moved in and when they weren't crossing continents or smelting soft metals; they lived piously, throwing peach pits at the local dogs who filled their backyard with many secrets.
In the living room there's a picture of dark and greasy smoke that hanging over Garden Point and the rest of the Widows. It's like a pillow looming over its next victim. On a plate at the bottom of the frame, a plaque reads; all that's left standing along the Platzflow. It's just a single cottage and its small wood shed. Both of them are covered in gruesome mud. It surrounds them for a mile at least; a wreak of buildings, boats and animals covered in soft heavy lines. Small among the mess stands Milton. He's in the doorway smoking his pipe.
In the margins are some short notes; the Editor likes debris; more barrels and broken cartwheels, that kind of stuff. They want flattened houses and their bricks should be strewn among the dead. Generally, the depth of field needs to be narrower, the whole atmosphere should hang like dead weight.
There's an earlier photo from another newspaper. It shows the same cottage on String Street, but this is before the upheaval of the Platz. Before the destruction and the mud that stretches from the river out to the world. This picture shows a homemade sign in front; DOG&SEED. In the cobbled street, there's a black cart that's heaped with ladders and chutes and there's Milton, smoking his pipe.
There are different notes here: For good or ill, this is close to the porous edge of history and your crappy poetry has preceded us. For good or ill, the boxes on this calendar have started to fade. The hums of fantasy, the grinding of their sexy bits will perpetually reproduce simulacra until time's end. While we're stuck inside this train, going through whatever tunnel is nearest the falling smokestack.
Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading the note and she knowingly confronts her moment's truth. This isn't Morocco. We're not in Tangier and no one has to die yet. She stops, "no!" she stops again and thinks, "this is way more like Dogmatic every day."
Littered as it is with robot leavings and the burnt flags of nowhere. The retreating kids still defiantly hold the distant corners of morning while she's fighting fascism in the dust behind her shed. Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone uses her 50 cent pencil to hold down the paper. She writes, I will be free.
The cold blade of distance can smile back, even if it is a knife this time. Since we’ve untangled ourselves from the comforts of bed, there's more then just trouble to do, and it keeps me on and on. No, the coffee hasn't been that bad and the mirror hasn’t grown dim, but we are still here. I think it's going to rain again later. I'm also thinking about the first three songs on that album. They remind me of you, Milton.
Right now I’m lost inside my own thoughts. Here I am, Mistress, Baby, Contented Sabeteaur…
While this is happening, Milton writes in his own book, morning came like a soup. The slow tease of his perfect oolong tea suggests a giggle, so he does. Then the warm smoke in the air reminds him of his last cigarette.
While this is happening, Milton writes in his own book, morning came like a soup. The slow tease of his perfect oolong tea suggests a giggle, so he does. Then the warm smoke in the air reminds him of his last cigarette.
There are times when he's sharing breakfast with Katt, she's another artist. In the Widows, Katt and Milton are like old neighbors. Together, in the morning they munch buttery eggs. They talk about the scale of elephant jokes or the pamphlets left at bus stops. Sometimes they'll read to one another, but today they're naked, hiding under the table and looking out as more of the morning gets older.
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