Bucked Off

March 19, 2011

Bronco digs, charted by 1500’s, delineated by dirt funds, streets lit by heat leeched from leaks in Northern patches, fit for filing under anti-social, anti-fun even in the Conservative cabinet.

We stumble awake, tumble down the yard back to miss the bus.

Rabbit in the hat acts in writing, writing text to end the start of climax instead of steadily feeding the Aristotelian machine: we’re making a new machine to rattle the anatomy of the academy (nod to Jurassic), pull out the rug outing the under writers in the avant garde.

They say the new guard is provisional.Where a door is a window is a page is a leaving, we want to want to wash our car at midnight because desire is a porthole to the self complete. Here: where we believe self exists. We fish for our feet and arms and build our bodies tits first. We have billboards so we believe in so much: such things as g-d thinks out of being. Things are no such thing as being.

Spring? All seeds flouresce, ream the shucking night flight. Too late to seam, twould seem. We’ve already irradiated our dreams.

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