4/18/12

4/18/12

I crocked the crooked hand inside of my lung but it was so far away that I couldn't see where I was going, under the rug and under the fridge I crawl and crawl until I reach a big bag zone full of rats and stargazers unfolding their wings outwardly nothing else like it they glimmer and stargaze until the stars have all died . . . nobody but you in here, just you, zeroed in on your face your stature and demeanor, reflecting the signals of others back into your environment all into a big package a mandatory game

zh-zhing, boss, bury my head under the sand so that the grains become lodged intimately in my delicate folds of head flesh. stack it on top of itself but maintain a pattern, a consistent regulatory pulse, holding it all together tying them into each other infinitely--say, do you have a light? I knew a guy who said he could stand up for twelve hours straight without doing a single thing else. He was dumb, probably. Couldn't imagine any other reason why somebody would behave that way.

zh-zhing, boss, I can't breathe can you get me into a different factory? well I guess I can stick it out another month or two, but I'm afraid all of our lungs will collapse into one big lung! This is a fear I've had since birth! I narrowly missed the train to outer space and then my leg got cut off by a demon and I gained a thousand pounds and died. My head was cut off and stored secretly for fifty years and then it was destroyed. I rose up out of my remnants in the middle of the woods and began to type on an old keyboard. These words, these are my words to you. Read them carefully; study every word with me--imagine that I am writing them at this very moment, as you read them, a tangible fragment of an endless abstraction.

[ [  Mrellow Ned, rrrraowwww ¡ hello oat bran head !  ] ]

pelly-can head

the old verse cracks and peels its shreds give way to a new verse