memo xxx540 00xx54f.rr.tt.g. xxx78I. received.
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start.3764b.AM866f.
fasten the orgone accumulators cold dripping eyes blue notes like broken toys in hands of three year old but sir yes well readings have been taken dials have been set mr clevius with filtered hands sends in thought signals inform echo police a sergeant holvakkk surly you must remember that flesh stump you will find melting away at old oak desk folding neon rap sheets into douglas firs tell him we’ve found another slipping on diced fingers in the ‘please tell me you have seen it’ fix drop the complex numbers linchpin of differential even if subtlety grabs guns nightsticks tear gas back away to fifty position strategically silent boiling cry of beastofwailingappetite nothing breaks the scum like afghan apotheosis and if might have bit of the problem with consul of fingertip assembly motions disturbed those white devils always know when they’re bluffing tell speaker i’ll deliver the address personally orders for dubious executions pay to see that clevius now muffled voice cowering like brittle leaf folded deck in tempest prison leans on scaffold yes sir well if i may we all believe in the noble schism but more importantly what many of you don’t realize and if how desire for spectacle has come in we simply cannot keep up production of accumulators micro transistors hard to come by in days just and if walk slowly with stiff hand in echo police wanted tamers they used to call them as bait in bleeding gums sting operation feeling like such a fool send the hard nines back where they belong help perspective in the end was official memo from assembly escapist circuits the hot-wired veto though it’s quite a stretch to call them that clevius set to send em in the red crank the generators straight electric fix juiced to twenty never seen so many orgasms in my life ha have their blood cells screaming for more first full reflections highlight this fact well yes sir but again i must insist enough moves have been made renfield the crystal metal procedure is underway octavius is next in line find him weeping in a mess on the floors don’t give me the old pushed eyebrow we’re all in it together right just and if no buckling under now key to our success is in thinking comparatively like a steak knife in a skull all paeans sung in our praise and if our shining hour is hex set let em see with their own eyes and if sir please know that transference is indeed possible with minimal or no risk to healthy prehuman substrate assuming of course said substrate has successively undergone neural suture positives and sequestered fluids in individual tubes containing the ‘little white knowledge’ of which results in fine blue powder spoke of earlier in memo and if can only hope still have the formula on hard copy magnetic scan of echo police at any moment trace of figures as best minds of programming dept have been unable to produce high percentage yield preliminary batch you know those bastards tests will continue well yes sir but and if i am telling you they won’t know what hit em when virus cultures hit streets and transference is complete natives stuck on isolates cysts forming reeking of the ‘natural substance’ and everyone starts resembling each other they’ve gone mad they’ll say blast the currents dammit foul tide of desolate inertia alley scum rotting sucking saving breath between fits bleeding vomiting into each others’ mouths and ‘where’d you put it?’ soaking noxious newspaper shots swell with captions of the metal selects ass fucking confluent with hands over hearts humming along ‘O say can u see?’ while clevius all cold and dead and eyes like sulfur signing release forms on clipboard smiling and if fishing through gray slacks for that one and if medal of public appreciation cold sewer relic hung on neck and hand through hair and if smiling just grinning bloodstained teeth as octavius half a substrate ejaculates hard and fast through curtainofmarbledsmoke.
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flesh wound in delirium station
still too soon to crumble
my wasted dandelions
children filch padlocks
twilight is the same song
naked,
the heparin herald
band-aid for concussions
comfort in sick sublime
such a marionette smile
or in this cast a theater
eke out an existence to
slug slowly
immortal moray
tangled in the mess a breadline
snarling guards that hurt
know that the blood rushes out
terminal disease fits in a suitcase
& comes down through my shirt
purple babes, stop
stop
stop
sobbing at the marquis
butterfly's drill [choking all gardens]
1. It can't die in the cavity. Which way is split, and neither burn. Every pressure begins to turn inside the wise. Beaten in an hour then crying with fists exploding, never lifting any drill. Don't forget to choke on the pill and pull the black mirror apart like a headache. Gardens never trying and today's seams now caution very healthy choke drills. Apart & away. Away from all fissures and dominant decrees, celestial tones from the mouth in the wallet, poured honey & prefab tits, charcoal dollars with shark's teeth. And maybe the probably will win. Each has his way to die in the cavity. A dollar's worth of pulling apart the ends, killing time to explode the drills. All drills. At least the ones that cheat. A slender caution in cups from crying too far away. Beaten into a command and dressed in the fringes, and maybe eating new shapes from another gut, it was nothing to look at. But each drill is really a headache undressing what it means to think up a cavity. Free of all cheats clowning in the crying cosmos. Holding dollars up to the choke pill—each drill has to fly away and die. And maybe even the healthy fringe lies beaten in the cavity. No joke away, at least one for all fissures, no heads can hold up under the weight of the split, and every dream flavors the waiting for the cavity—until it's still. Never maniacal, and hardly burning, not spitting but pouring every hour into the choke, into the lethargic teeth, into the garden cups, and then waiting in the cavity's fringes for the cheat to kill. From very far away. With dominant crying dressed with fissures and half-beaten drills.
2. Enter a garden to pull apart a cosmos and create from the unhealthy inside a new raw drill. Is the pill really exploding? and have the beaten faces expired? Return to the weight of probably dominant and hide the drills in the garden and push it all into the choke. Dress the dream in dollars and crying whores and all kinds of lethargic gut fissures and maniacal headaches and the iron crowns. Is it clear? Is it all the thinking behind a healthy undressing of the cavity?
3. Even if you have to joke and then die—still, make the fountain sing before cheating the cavity. In the shark's clowning, maybe even crying, at least for one, for an hour, away. It isn't very clean or weighted. And the hollow flavor kills the seams, free and red, pouring hate into the fountain's dream and flying away. Garden gut stars slapped and beaten in their cavities. Trying to get a dominant cosmos from the skin of a butterfly's drill.
4. Spleen and stone living off the choke never lie. Though the pouring cheats and the cavity assumes a new choke. Dominant warnings from beaten stars expire, every new pill chokes every new hour, and dreams confined and crying for new seams with no teeth lose all their crowns. In this depleted garden, all is measured.
5. Nothing but the gut to look at—the clean and cold sinister pushing and eating. Eating all the drills, the ones that clean the stations and cheat the fissures—no cavity can take it. Alone, the hollow chokes with spleen dollars and a butterfly's drill. No chance for healthy dreams to collide in sick still hours.
6. Every head competes. The memories push the stations, the memories confirm that a knife in the cavity speaks: at all times alone, and hollow, and with guts that can take over a station whenever a loss is beaten and scanned. Warned to never ingest another pill. Never wear your radioactive crown, never expect the butterflies to take other shapes and undress the cavity. Just pour it all in and slowly kill the seams. Stall and sing to a choke-ingesting generation.
7. Let gardens kill the cavities, you're all butterflies with guts and stones. Roar into the drills and pull all choking away. No more thinking. No more thinking, losing, refusing the dream because of which way it splits and which way the garden may burn and because now all stations are hollow and lethargic and all chokes'll probably pour it all in the mouth in an hour and win. You can't scare the drills into remembering but you can keep their population from tripling. You can keep the pills and charcoal and leave the dominant flying crowns a station or two. It isn't a very clean cosmos—and love stalls, plus the dollars don't cover the seams, and all undressing is beaten and lost. No head is thinking, heavy hatred exploding the pain. Most of a second world is needed to hold this pain. The flying, population-sculpting, station-crushing, crypto-cavity-undressing pain: the butterflies dreaming of sick, exploding garden stars while the cosmos happily eats itself.
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