Wednesday, March 13, 2013
text || Lawrence Upton
Intense focus, mental amnesia
Long dim to be the one. he. family trust. I had bought, what they keep me, was always broke; and the world, her body on my arms. I have been surprised. That knows. Pulsed the continuous from the mediocre.
The disruptions of industry are aspects of a plight less bearable than love, attitude crossed out beneath them. Death lit bullet proof wires under the trader. Broken, wrote one day, down in the secreted fabulous windows of himself; and vacuity. Blaze then.
Dog cannot believe it exists, right in the exit, less silence. That moved, in the face of personal business. A world seen as absence.
The world continues turning, breathing vowels. They keep me warm. It remains impossible, sorry for truth, spilled. Some more, he tells me. The words clutter the correct affect. His dog cannot believe, thinner in the face on everybody.
The undivided stranger is rare indeed, drunk or decoy, crowds piled up. All night talking to a skull. You shot him in your brain. He fell, but only at the news. Pass. I find a sheet of paper and read the salt light, rest my fingers, the hallucination creaming the straining head. They found his face on the camera, into the dizzying flickers, an invented wind. I'll have thought. Move my own inclinations lightly. See the cataract of love, every piece of her in his skin; her soul will destroy the winter, he imagines; the words are in between freshly painted walls. The head is dead. He is dead. A hill of heads, one day, irresponsible in the eyes of the mob, breaks down in the beautiful, hanging incompatible. Their own darkness. It began here, the enhanced sometime. My world continues turning. They walk, legs tangled, disassembled light. The mob want some, unmoving, only impossible. There were prayers.
States of bringing things to be very poor art from the author face. Ceremony belief. They observe this crowd of written world. They wanted a secret golden face, a sheet of statement, trailing in and out names in a slow mantra. The words are always has been.
Inside the gridlock is a sentence. I was expecting my body is all things in the synecdoche of emotional breakdown. The words are sonorous, the whole history of himself and emptiness. They observe, describing a landscape. I take care. This objectified illness. Revolving light. It is destroyed. It and a singer here. So many collections of himself and of statements. They're sexy. The mob want to get sorry for being recognised.
Find the treasure. They pass. I was expecting slow hands inside the answer. She begins to forage, words breaking light off gold, insistently toned, behind but not under. A whine is rare. Egress of mind.
The noisy man, I, a complete fool. I'll cut your eminence. You killed him. Tractable radiance all over the world, the world her, crawled off. She is perforated. The words are somewhat hairy at the husks of shape, messaging with stains under the traffic of hysteria, over the radio.
Imagine I never implied anything near your rendition of danger.
Memorisation of disappearing. The dream of mind. Flaking declarations. A betrayed body, a betrayed orgasm. Imperfect again. A standard unnamed which everybody should read, an illegitimate sentence is destroyed in the epidermis of the breeze, into the river, out of the world, her body, refuses copies, the backwards gorgeous, stunning upon the imaginary. The tiny velocity of this. The enhanced black.
She is primordial, slipping in the story of the head as he stumbled. Mnemonic tears. This blood thickens. Flesh rare, eaten apart, this generation of regretful truth.
Words are like the mask of a drunk in your synthetic heart. You killed him. He died, shivering. Attachments of insecurity. He was found dead. Broken faces look down satisfied with sufficiency, bright-headed, the masks of heaving surfaces of limp worlds, halt, clattering. The camera swims among cloud, real. Many objects flee. Suction of the world. Her body on my arms. I have always my own inclinations, an instruction a moment that knows all must die, blemished blinding talking