[a response to Dis [integrate neighbor] Cover…Duck! BOOM!]
Draping a pant on a rail. Peeled a pant off a rail and flecks of paint from the rail sticking to the pant. And peels of paint sticking on the hand from the pant from the rail. And drapes around the eyes. Paint on the eyes as the drapes, and in the eyes the reflection of pant.
[response to: Bottom of the Glass]
Deconstruction of Bottom of the Glass
[response to lamister Lady]
Sitting on a shadow as on a mat we contemplated making pistons of our parts, only to find springs bounding on as if afeared; pipes busting out as if besmeared; breasts fleeing far as if just cleared; mine and yours in Sydney and Mumbai, respectively.
Anxious to jab a slab of my own bits on the detonator, I not only moved towards the front, but also scraped from my elbow the body butter. I with wings. But there: my sixty-two-year spry hide belied by the apparent button jam — detonate or bust, I always say — became not then a pack of horses and not then a scattering pack of horses and not then a pony and certainly not then a galloping pack of horses and not then even a hobby horse–
–but then a washer in the shadow on the sand, separate springs, pipes, parts all creaking into the small place where enabling conversation cannot go. Rust is oxidizing iron.
[Response to “In This City”]
/ Our /
the assembling /
// his kin / the / bid me buy
// cheap pharmaceuticals / show
// the numb insides of animals
ware //// taking
// quivered, undulated //
I felt you smiling about
some private joke,
[response to “Though I troll this house…”]
Staring into mirrors that aren’t
mirrors, but kissing separates
duplicating. No one cares
if it’s messy; distorting
prism refraction. Mirrors aren’t
mirrors, just two parallel
points along the y-axis.
The agonizing space between
beckons longingly. You are both
true and wrong and a third
thing that makes you not
both or any. Waves of
pressure flow over and under
the middle, along the center
of all things.
[read the response: “Off guard”]
[response to “Because the land was besieged by the sea…”]
Brakes (v., tr., as against the embankment of memory)
A bushel that tiny heads grow out of is planted on the side of it. Great lackeys come by every day to stomp its sides. Presses a great seizure of the downtown. These are used in the photograph by the actual surveyors of the insurance busy sending the bushels downtown. They are thinking about how to actualize the business. Entirely on its own business, family of its own stilts. They send a whole bushel to any suffering family after they stomp their own bushels which grow in the water. Suffering them to sink a pool in a ring. In trust that on the escape of any exquisite corpse with a voice, this corpse will be made to recite a clear pool until it runs off into an estuary that will finally empty out into the greater body of its family. That the wind of the sea would empty. This has been tried in paper-making, tamping down the looser leaves of the body against the wind, but this did not grow the business because of the water, which is not a quick-to-push material, is not elastic, and runs off in the water. For the house that is a material seed. For the moment, as insurance against the sea, an earthenware bowl is used to photograph any bushels that fall, and whenever a house falls, the bottom binds up into a vessel.
[read the response: “Downtonw barely roughtown…”]