Idle a few seconds at the first window, staring into the stock boxes and someone’s elbow, before rolling to the next window because some fast food joints don’t use all their windows. Pay, grab the food, drive off. Another lunch served. Another plastic straw you never asked for.
Sunset ushers a golden glow where the day is about to end and the night, the oncoming evening, is ready to be done with as you please. All the worlds in a sense of open opportunities before bed and the snooze strikes at 21:00 local time.
Ducked it for too long, but got caught with that right-eye glaze – that deckled edge on the lens awards cataract wisdom... & not much else. Call it, -tribution: ripped of a prefix and left for dead.
[-W +H]as poetry ever been commissioned to absorb damage adsorbed in the municipal briar patch?
Countrysat, hereness declared. Rows of houses sat on rotted ground. Transpose that sumna -> dodgy foundations for periodontal disease. What pass them slicks lodge in the duodenum to be iron-leached and kerosene swabbed.
Pooled into insignificance, radiant, incandescent, umbra-proof – white wine, half-pills and chemical peels make for healed heads and delayed obituaries.
Cripped and stripped, bare down to the toe knuckles. There, by the sea, across the wharf, we sit. We sip. We spit. Yesterday takes enough of its time getting through, and we're barely on the other side. A smoky haze we've never better seen.
Ratlings, you'll find, are faecal deposits that line your walls and crawlspace. They're so-called because the size is like a small rat, bigger than a mouse, and often come with a tail-like drag. By the time you've found one the waiting period to exit the contract has lapsed.
More shells turn up under the scissored ribbon. More and more everyday. They don't stop coming. They'll never stop coming. You make one joke about Demolition Man your go-to and then like that, everyone thinks you've got a turtle or snow globe type of fetish that needs to be sated.
Industry (Preston School of), locus of such dissatisfaction. Something to be approached gingerly, like an obsessive-compulsive might a rococo tureen.
Sweep the leg is the new embolic paradigm. Each of they own stick to they own, and always always render unto Ghidorah. To talk the opposite of toxic is to talk Quixotic.
Pristine pages fall out and we're looking for the staples, finding only stitches. Saddles with no horses, backs broken all the same. The song turns, the sun dips across, and shadows cover up the kitchenette table. We've found crazy in a moteless place.
Jobbed up, teef loaded. A certain tinge of porraceousness; eyes filtered for a girl with Doc Martens and Jean Seberg hair. Dye marshalled against fabric, against all good sense; isms bypassed for aesthetic grandeur. Liminal space invaded; exploration of aberration: another grim fandango. Swollen dreams spat, of debasement, deprivation and hardship. Drop the drop-ship, Sulaco-bound. Strapped in tight, leeches lashed to my broken head. Palimpsest potential, scrape away the asemic: all that big talk, all them dwarves roped & rationalised. It’s the wrong tube now, primed and directed, caught red-headed. Stepchild disguise for the last time now.