Twist the lingering sherbets into downright shapes of cackle’s mourning before the summer can crack your drying eyes. List as many fans of broomdom as you can in the space of nine times the outer, willowing lengths of computer-trails in simmering, blank darkness outside the laziest eye. Who are your neutrons? Save the blighted whale from its counterparts above the stream, staple the last buffoon to the party’s roof, but never cry for the always-ahead, for they have done up their buttons to the nth degree of burning intensity. Flames should lick your hair for nearness.
That these things happen is the indication of the fearlessness of the universe. That you happen is the indication of the fearfulness of birth. What is done when trying to outstrap unlogged particles from out of their air-earth shapes? What is lost in the endless, palavering translation? Beeps and broinks, steps and nodes, flippers and tongues to the outside: these symptoms of unrelease stipple the mind with razor-wire and sluice the gloaming canvas from out of the Spanish mimes put on the flowerbed of all our forgotten mysteries.
And the soap has finally dried, and my skin. Your skin. Let out to sun-in-rain.
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