receding sideways into rectangular crevices, saturated in sometimes surrounding this table, all ears and no input, eyes bent to the cue to curate my masterpiece and make it make no sense
opus fodder! (i’m not interested in your interpretation.
tell me results tomorrow, let me lay in bed and think alone all the things i need to do.)
air-conditioned cubicles, confines for rainy days, one block from the ocean and next to the bay where the seagulls serenade me for finite presence, monotonous calling with these callous-less hands
all-thumbs generation, star-spangled genocide, tongue-tied resentment for precedential quitters!
silk-screened addition to my barefoot brigade, prancing nonsensical onto your TRAPeze, and plexiglass laughing lost unto this wall where i will work up my colors and telltale it all.
aesthetics regret crooked concrete procedure, my brain is all i need to know how to proceed, savage fortifications to justify its presence. it doesn’t have a name, executive physics.
(how shall i proceed or advance? you already know the answer.)
underpants running into your for sale with warriors waking my alibi, baby. whirlwind flooding this sinking island, waters collapse with wallflower roads.
privately published, the auction of one’s mind. milk dance mafia, outside of it all. marilyn relations for centripical celebrations, tossed to the wall for spin spin television.
Peach your twirly eyes on soft electric skin, horizons of untouchable desperate madness, the mayhem of the stars losing themselves to gravity & twisted wishes, circular sweethearts who never knew the difference, who are never really anywhere but more so in-between, who sometimes take the time to say confounding things but not all that often, only in lieu of the most necessary & questionable situations for subliminal slip&slide stability, scaling evolutionary slopes only to solidify the ground, where blind unknowing
never thinking always going, steady hasting rarely slowing – the value of reflection? hummingbird healers all full of fluff articulation intrinsically tap dancing on sleepy treetops to up-down music! hands on hips laughing at their riff-raff repetition & that rusty rhythm that lays bye-bye baby to bed (but what do you wonder when you lay down your head?) to splash-dancing ballerinas in mint mango brain storms, thunder lightning illumination, the surface of the sun sun sundry your skin toward disintegrating creation
My dad told me about the two types of succesful people in this world. He said there are those who see other successful people and push themselves to achieve such great heights and those who build themselves up by putting others down. Who am I? Who are you? Why do we use other peoples’ heads as stepping-stones?