Month: April 2017

Import
Odes

There happy
You've had
Your God Damn 
MoMA of Silence
For Your Self A Secondsex

Burning scripts
Which ones win?

 
**
 

Und Ur Platzovál

Ni
Ban banana
Bannon Republak
Platund Platz
Phaedraz
Quite jetzt
Martini plz
Manhattan
Fuk again tra
Sik must we?
Ya Stoya again
Coke en masse
Nein danke 
Nein tropes
Needed or
Wanted hier 
Mein Himmler
Odar Fader
Freichstagah
Shots fired
Techne 
Du ist die Wurst
Wie Kunst die die 
Die Romeo Rowlings Lins
Dante flames Homo Tanzen 
Jehovah jails Job over ice
Herds etc.
Blah blah 
Blaise passé
Blake Shelley
Pascal pastels
Anna Sextons
Tramp
Alasss Sylvia 
Time und joy
Meine sickle
Salvia Dali Dalits
Datura Plaths
& Ivanka
Manias

 
**
 

Great Commission Edit

Must be pathed 
Und skyscraped
Pound four Pound
Purgatorio Dolarosa
Yes it will look self-imposed
Certainly not self-fulfilling
Perhaps even Futurist
Du Nu I still Domina
Same wasteland game 
Scheißkerl climbers
Foucov Nikolai slavs 
Nicht even pure .data
Climaxes own bruts
Enough of
Ur wine
Du sell 
Tak

Blood&CzechMate
-Marx possibly

We went way down and crossed over to the side that isn’t even other it’s an ether and breath, it’s the breathing on time and all out of sorts, my sort of quarrel with the cosmos and the down-drop-dew you sow into the earth (or else) (or else what?). The questioning teeth and its own kind of regime. Making hair over ten times, showing it again and again, this time will be different but it’s the same old different, still all sensational. Motion. Cleaning out the archives, the attic. A genealogy foretold and borrowed coats. You know that song? It’s delphinium and orchid. I’m overtime. Let’s get it together once more to make it more than it could ever be moreover. The truth is. Having said that. On time and on our way, tell Mars and Mercury and Jupiter to move over: what kinda intelligence generates such sensations and sessions: b-side, arithmetic, osmosis, asthmatic, ash, and matter. Mother mother / be well be well. I keep saying it over bc I can’t get it outta my damn head. And I hear it so sweet full softly, like a low sizzle on stove. You’re an ago and then you’re gone, but you haven’t gone so far that it’s further than my comprehension, apprehension, hesitancy, talk of sex and the beautiful ones. Your photographs much more than factor: they are the outcome. And it’s all fleeting-fabric-like: underwater. That’s light light light. Ghosts in chorus laughing hallelujah. This making all hell break loose.