Vermin scare sparks disquiet alarm; surge of toxic indignation.
Bygone songs decorate our notion of the world, and mark it's limits.
casting off gravity, transmission built to talk to ghosts, a roadside distinction. Just say this: transit of spirit animals nothing living, don’t tell lies. Beat spirit, respirator buzz, shadow gratitude, confessions to my unborn daughter: when the heart emerges glistening, one mustn’t expect figs from thistles; to see what other people don’t, to see obstacles as inspirations - to be a peaceful warrior in an invisible cinema.
Dreamless and lost
in a mind of feathers and fancy; headless without ceiling, nonsense drenched with the unhinged conviction of solidified knowing. No, no; it’s heedless yoyo disintegration of runaway spirits scattered in the ceaseless tock of arhythmic time. Electrical metaphors, impulsive, unstable, but oh so pretty; previously seen in the spastic dance of St Vitus gone a rye, unplugged in a 3:00 AM torpor.
Annie Mulz was a stranger to herself, feeling that nothing is real. Asleep in the world, losing the dice, unable to play the game; confused by a love she never had, invisible and nobody, yet she has a name, and that’s the beginning of something.
Every source of secret amusement comes with the cost of isolation, and the threat of smugness - conviction of a specialness, a vestige of a childhood inkling that, inhaled like some illicit powder, maintains that delusion, when the rough truth remains: it is not so.
Like everything else, human connections shift; from neglect, from ineptness, from the stranglehold of family ghosts. expectations demand retrofitting, the broken remnants of disappointment are discarded onto the scrapheap of loss.
Acquisition and clean up,
the things we do, and those who are tasked with the remains of our desire. This nobility of mission, of keeping things right, unnoticed when accomplished, issue of complaint when left undone. In the doing resides dignity. All else is failure.
With the uneasy laugh of horror The World Clown Association decided to put on a skit: two balloons under their bosoms and carbon dioxide sparklers. The balloons didn’t fill up equally, and there were butt prints in the dough. Hidden incendiary girls, mobilized vulnerability, eat bitterness. Boom, Boom! Custom is the king of all; they would wish to get paid to devour the corpses of their fathers. That way they’ll be happy. Animated ornaments at the Kitty Cantina; The Heavyweight Sisters, Dark Monkeys, and The Mutual Benefit Society, obstructing government administration, negotiating worthless instruments; their words were a desecration of silence, the transformation of radical ideas into culture, a diehard rejection of the idea that we ourselves might be one such cataclysm. Human exceptionalism, the madness gene, gradually blinkered, like a star role from no-man’s land. The dinosaurs came, got too big and fat, so they all died and turned into oil.